


Daybreak

by KiranInBlue



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deaf Andrew, Gen, Heaven, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-03-30 03:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 128,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3922030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiranInBlue/pseuds/KiranInBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Andrew's desperate actions to save a Slayer catches the attention of someone in heaven, the entire course of the Twilight crisis changes.</p><p> (Voted Runner Up for "Best Plot" in Round 31 of <a href="http://sunnydawards.dragonydreams.com/nominees.html">Sunnydale Memorial Fanfiction Awards</a>! Thank you!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

[Banner by [buffythecomicslayer/violentpoetry](http://buffythecomicslayer.tumblr.com)]

 

Heaven today was warm, with a light breeze stirring through Cordelia’s hair. The sunlight was gentle on her skin, and clouds drifted lazily overhead. It was the perfect weather, reminding her of idyllic late spring days of her childhood.

This was, after all, heaven.

But this wasn’t _her_ heaven. There was far too much greenery in this corner of paradise for her liking - ivy creeping up tall trees and moss carpeting the forest floor, like some kind of fairytale woods. In her opinion, plants were better off tamed and neatly trimmed, and these woods didn’t have nearly enough shopping malls with 100%-off sales.

Cordelia turned the corner of the forest path she was walking along, and found herself on the bank of a clear stream. A little ways downstream, a figure sat hunched on a rock, their feet dangling in the water below. They hadn’t seemed to notice her approach.

“Hey! Jonathan!”

At the sound of Cordelia’s shout, the figure turned.

Jonathan was wearing a block-patterned red and black jumpsuit, the hem of the pants rolled up to his knees. As Cordelia continued down the bank toward him, Jonathan scrambled to his feet.

“Cordelia, hi.”

Cordelia paused in front of him and scowled down at his outfit. “Are you wearing that Star Wars uniform again?” she demanded, eyebrow lifted.

“Star _Trek_. Next Generation, seasons one and two.”

“Well, get rid of it,” she retorted. “This may be your heaven, but I think I get a little say in what paradise looks like. And I’m not talking to you dressed like that.”

Jonathan scowled at her, but the image of the uniform shimmered, and then he was standing in front of her in a simple white t-shirt and denim shorts. “Better?”

“Much.”

Jonathan harrumphed and smoothed down his shirt.

“So, what’s up?” Cordelia asked after a moment. “You looked a little lost in thought when you were sitting down.”

A shadow passed over Jonathan’s face. “Come look,” he said simply.

He gestured her over to where he’d been sitting, and then pointed down at the water below.

The forest was not reflected in the stream; instead, Cordelia found herself peering down at what looked like the back of a truck, where six or seven girls were curled up around each other in a nest of hay, all sleeping. At the center of the puppy pile lay the group’s only boy - a kid with spiked blonde hair, who was wearing a too-large sweatshirt emblazoned with the Union Jack. Even in sleep, the boy looked troubled.

“I was listening to Andrew’s prayers,” Jonathan said quietly. “One of his Slayers has gone missing. He’s been praying to get her back safely. He only just fell asleep.”

“Yeesh. That kind of stress is no good for getting your nine winks. Any idea what happened to her?”

Jonathan waved a hand, and the image in the water changed. Now they were overlooking a grand mansion, with tall, ornate windows and a sprawling garden almost as large as the building itself.

“Lady Genevieve Savidge,” he muttered miserably. “Apparently, she’s a rogue Slayer capturing other Slayers to hunt them down for sport. I-I didn’t know about her until now, but she got to Andrew’s team. The missing one - Indira - is still alive, but probably not for too much longer.” He paused. “Not unless we do something.”

Cordelia glanced at him sharply. “Excuse me?”  

Jonathan looked away and fisted his hands in the hem of his shirt. But when he spoke, his voice was steady. “I was actually going to come ask you. _You_ have power. I can only watch, but you can actually do something. You can keep Indira safe.”

“Hey now. That is _so_ not in my job description.”

“But--!”

Cordelia shook her head. “Look, it’s not that I don’t _want_ to help. I do. I sure as hell don’t want to sit by and watch this innocent girl get murdered by that pretty-faced creep. But my duties as a higher power are restricted to keeping the Champion in line, and this one girl really doesn’t play any role in that, so I can’t.” She made a face. “Although that is seriously messed up.”

“There has to be _something_ you can do,” Jonathan pleaded. “She’ll die if we don’t.”

Cordelia heaved a sigh. “I can talk to the other Powers, I suppose. Try to argue it, see if anyone can step in. No promises, though. She’s just one girl, and heaven can’t step in for every run-of-the-mill murder.”

“She’s a _Slayer_ , though.”

“As are like three thousand others, thanks to little miss change-the-rules,” Cordelia pointed out, an undercurrent of respect in her voice. “But I’ll do what I can.”

Jonathan still looked unhappy, but he nodded. He sat back down at the edge of the stream and frowned down at the water. The image had switched back to the view of Andrew and the team of sleepy Slayers.

After a moment, Cordelia sat down next to Jonathan.

“So, you listen to Andrew’s prayers.”

It wasn’t phrased as a question, but Jonathan answered it as one anyway.

“I know he killed me,” he murmured. “But he was my friend, and he really feels bad about it. Older and wiser people have been seduced by the First. And now he’s alone. If I don’t look after him, no one will.”

“You don’t have to defend yourself to me,” Cordelia replied. “It’s your heaven. Listen to who you want to listen to.”

“Oh. Why do you mention it then?”

“Because it’s stupid to work yourself up over prayers you can’t answer,” she said. “This is _paradise,_ Jonathan. We can look down on the people we left behind if we want, but you’d be an idiot to make yourself miserable trying to make them happy.”

“I’m not, though!” he protested. “I just . . . this is _important_.”

“And I’ll do what I can. But even higher powers aren’t omniscient, let alone common souls like yourself. I _get_ wanting to help, but you can’t get yourself invested.”

“I know,” Jonathan replied. He sighed, and rested his chin on his knees. “But Andrew talks to me sometimes. Usually, it’s apologizing. But he also tells me about the new Doctor Who or about Daniel Craig’s James Bond. It’s nice to know someone remembers me, even when I’m here.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Jonathan. When was the last time you got out of your little corner of heaven?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You can keep playing as if you’re all Mr. Cellophane and ignoring the fact that I am _visiting you right now_ , or you can get up already and enjoy the very company you keep bemoaning you never had in life. Did you ever even go meet the friend I told you about?”

Jonathan glanced away. “Not yet.”

“And what’s keeping you? Doyle’s a great guy. You’re missing out.”

He shrugged.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” Cordelia continued. “You want me to speak on your behalf about Andrew and Indira? Fine. I’ll do that. But in return, you’re coming with me to meet Doyle right after, got it? You’re going to get out and enjoy heaven, or so god help me.” She paused. “Or so me help me.”

\----

The soothing rumbling under Andrew abruptly cut off. Blearily, he lifted his head.

The truck had stopped in the middle of a dense forest, where moonlight barely filtered through the leaves above. The road under the truck was cracked and overgrown. The driver’s door slammed shut, and then the crunch of boots on dead leaves and gravel came around to the back of the truck.

“This is as close as I get. The Savidge manor is five miles further along the road. You can walk that much.”

In the dim illumination of the nighttime woods, the driver’s face was inscrutable. Andrew could barely make out a head against the blackness around them. But Andrew’s hand closed around Indira’s barrette in his pocket, and the warmth of the locator spell told him they were close.

“Thanks,” he said, and thrust a handful of crumpled bills into the driver’s hand. To the stirring Slayers beside him, he called: “Come on, guys! We’ve got a teammate to save!”   

The girls slipped down from the truck onto the road. Andrew dropped down next to them, and the moment his feet hit the ground, the truck was rumbling back to life. He turned and watched as it pulled away, the taillights dimming to pinpricks of red until it disappeared into the woods.

Then the car was gone, and the forest was left eerily silent.

Andrew pulled the barrette out of his pocket. On his open palm, it spun around like a compass, until the thin end was pointing deep into the woods. Andrew swallowed hard.

But he squared his shoulders and said, in his best Fearless WatcherTM voice: “Let’s move.”

They set off in the direction the barrette pointed, past underbrush and low branches. The Slayers hung behind Andrew, their hands on the weapons strapped to their belts and backs. He led them through the woods, while the buzz of wildlife began to grow around them in the wake of the truck’s engine.

But then - the burgeoning cricket chirping was cut short by a scream.

\-----

“Not your job to interfere, my _ass_!” Cordelia snapped, her hands on her hips. “You guys are pathologically interfering - except when we want you to be! Moving this one girl out of harm’s way wouldn’t inconvenience you for one second, but no, you’re just not going to bother!”

The white temple they were standing in was ostensibly empty, save for the blue flames flickering in a pit in the center of the marble floor. But as Cordelia spoke, a wind blew through the room. Jonathan shrank back.

Cordelia paused for a moment, as if listening to something. Then she snorted. “Don’t give me that crap. This girl wasn’t even meant to be a Slayer. If Buffy hadn’t run her little spell, where would Indira have been in the lineup? Fiftieth? Two hundredth?”

The flames rose.

“Exactly. So don’t tell me this was her destiny. This girl should be in high school, worrying about exams and social hierarchies, not being slaughtered by a psychotic, superpowered serial killer!”

The wind picked up again. Cordelia sighed.

\-----

Italy Squad crashed through the forest, not even bothering to keep quiet. There was, after all, only one Lady Genevieve to their seven - eight, if you counted Andrew. Shouts were still coming from the northeast, which meant at least that Indira was still alive.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” Andrew urged his Slayers, while he brought up the rear. He stumbled over a fallen log that the rest of the Squad had easily jumped over. “Don’t wait for me! You’ve all done your training - you guys got this!”

And the rest of the Squad rushed on.

\-----

“There are plenty of ways to protect her,” Cordelia argued with the pit of flames. “You’re not that uncreative. How about, I don’t know, sending a ghost to scare Lady Genevieve off? Or another one to show Indira to safety? Come _on_.”

“Please,” Jonathan piped up, from where he was still cowering slightly behind Cordelia.

\-----

The screams had broken off. Andrew’s gut twisted uncomfortably, and he put on an extra burst of speed he didn’t know he’d had.

“Indira!” he called out into the woods, forgetting entirely that Watchers weren’t supposed to draw attention to themselves.

“She’s here, Mr. Wells!” He recognized Mary’s voice coming from up ahead - it was strained, and wavering. “Come quickly! Oh, it’s not good.”

\-----

“Is there nothing you can do?” Jonathan asked. He’d stepped out from behind Cordelia and cautiously approached the pit of flames. “Please. I haven’t asked anything before this. I mean, not since I’ve been dead, at least.”

The flames sputtered, but Jonathan just swallowed and pressed on.

“It’s not even for me! And not Andrew either, even though that’s how I heard about it. It’s for Indira, and if Andrew and I don’t deserve anything because of what we did, Indira’s never done anything like that! At least, I don’t think so. I-I don’t actually know Indira that well. But she’s just a kid! Please!”

\-----

When Andrew caught up with his Squad, six Slayers were standing pale and wide-eyed in a circle around a seventh, who was crouched on the ground by a limp body.

“Oh, God,” Andrew gasped. “Indira? Indira!” He pushed through the circle and fell to his knees.

Indira was laying sprawled out in the dirt, her dark hair tangled and splayed out around her head. Her face was a ghostly grey, and her stomach -- Andrew nearly heaved.

He clapped a hand over his mouth and swallowed down hard, until his belly stopped churning. Deep slices had been cut into Indira’s abdomen and stretched wide. Andrew had seen his share of injuries since taking up the job of Watcher, but this . . . he could see _organs_.

“Is-is she dead?”

“Not yet,” murmured the Slayer crouched on the ground next to him - Claire, Andrew dimly recognized. “But she’s going to bleed out before we can get her anywhere. I’m sorry, Mr. Wells.”

“No,” Andrew squeaked. “No, that’s not right! She’ll be okay! C-Captain Mal got stabbed through the stomach, and he was okay!”

“Andrew . . .”

“We just have to stop the bleeding,” he said as he wrenched off his sweatshirt and balled it up. He shoved the fabric onto a portion of the wound and pushed down hard. “Come on, Indira! Please!”

\-----

“It’s just one girl!” Cordelia snapped. “We’re not asking for much - and you guys owe me an eternity of favors for what I did for you for years!”

“Indira deserves to live!” Jonathan insisted.

The flames rose for a moment - and then vanished entirely.

“Well, thanks for nothing!” Cordelia yelled out into temple, which was suddenly cold and felt larger than ever. “You pathetic excuses of . . . whatever you are! What’s the point in having power if you don’t do anything to save an innocent girl?!”

“Are . . . are they gone?”

Cordelia huffed. “Yeah. Useless pieces of crap.”

Jonathan’s shoulders slumped. “So Andrew and Indira are on their own.”

“Hey.” Cordelia turned to Jonathan and rested a hand on his shoulder. “You say Andrew’s smart, right? Maybe he’ll figure something out.”

“Maybe,” Jonathan muttered. “But the Powers could have made sure.”

“Yeah, I know. And believe me, they’ll get an earful from me next time they dare show their ugly faces. But Indira’s strong, and you tell me Andrew’s dedicated. She won’t give up easy, and he’ll do whatever it takes to keep her alive.”

Miserably, Jonathan nodded. “Yeah. You’re right.”

\-----

“Andrew, are you sure about this?”

Claire was gripping at his arm, but Andrew shook her off. He drew himself up to his full height and tugged at the hem of his shirt, channeling his best Captain Picard.

“I have to,” he said firmly.

“But that’s a _demon_ ,” she hissed.

“A Pockla demon,” Andrew agreed. “A healer demon.”

The robed figure standing before them drew down their hood with long, pale fingers to reveal a gaunt face with red eyes and shimmering black hair that hung to their shoulders. A smile cracked at their lips; their teeth were small and pointed.

“That I am,” the Pockla said in a low, gravelly voice. “You seek my services?”

Andrew stepped aside to reveal Indira’s unconscious body. Her blood had soaked completely through his sweatshirt, and had spread in a wide pool across the ground. She was barely breathing.

“Heal her,” Andrew demanded. “Please.”

“You are prepared to pay the price?”

“Wait, _price_?” Claire broke in. “Andrew--”

“I am,” he said to the demon. “But I summoned you, so you take it from me only. Everyone else here is off-limits.”

“Of course.”

“Andrew, what price?” Claire cried, her voice high-pitched with worry.

Andrew glanced over at her and gave a small, half-shrug. “It’s rude to ask a Pockla.”

The Pockla smiled, again exposing their shark-like teeth. “Polite boy.”

“Andrew, please think about this!”

But Andrew ignored Claire. “So you’ll heal her?” he said to the demon.

“Certainly.” And the Pockla stepped forward, rolling up the long sleeves of their robes.

Claire looked as if she were about to throw herself between the demon and Indira’s body. Several of the Slayers grabbed at their weapons.

“Easy,” the Pockla said, sounding amused. “I can’t help your friend here if you slay me.”

“Italy Squad, stand down,” Andrew ordered. His voice wavered, but his lips were set in a firm line.

The Slayers exchanged uneasy glances. Then they stepped back, although they did not release their grips on their weapons.

The Pockla sank down to their knees by Indira’s body, and one skeletal hand reached out to hover over the wound in her abdomen.

Immediately, the skin began to knit back together. The flow of blood slowed; color began to rise in Indira’s cheeks. Her breathing grew steadier and more noticeable, while the laceration on her stomach shrank until it was nothing more than a faint red line on the skin.

The Pockla curled their long fingers into a fist. Indira’s eyes fluttered open.

“Hu-h . . . ?”

“Indira!” Andrew let out an jubilant cry and dropped down next to her. One arm went around her shoulders, and he helped her carefully sit up. “Are you okay? How are you feeling? Woozy? Cold? How’s your tummy?”

“I-I’m fine,” she muttered. “What happened? Who--?” She broke off, catching sight of the demon looming above her.

“Don’t mind me,” the Pockla replied pleasantly. “I’m just your doctor.” They turned to Andrew, and held out an open palm. “I’ve done my service. It is now time for my payment.”

Andrew swallowed hard. “O-okay. Take what you need.”

“Andrew, no!” Claire cried.

But the Pockla was already clenching their hand into a fist, and Andrew closed his eyes, steadying himself for . . . what, he wasn’t sure exactly. But he was certain it wouldn’t be pleasant. Demon deals never were.

A heartbeat passed. Then, Andrew sucked in a sharp breath as pressure began to mount in both his ears.

The feeling intensified, quickly passing from mild discomfort to outright pain. He let out a whimper, which became a sob, and clapped his hands over his ears. It felt like knives driving into his ears now. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his temples, and he gasped to steady himself against the pain, but it was too intense - streaks of white shot across his vision behind his eyelids.

The forest was slipping away. His nails were digging into his scalp as he screamed, and everything narrowed down to the searing pain in his ears. The sounds of his own cries and the Slayers’ frantic shouting were fading. Someone’s hands were on his back - someone else was trying to pry his nails away from his ears. Andrew ignored them both and curled in on himself, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes.

Just before Andrew slipped into unconsciousness, it was over. Andrew was left lying on the forest floor, panting, his ears throbbing. A branch was poking hard into his left leg, and a stone was digging into his shoulder.

Slowly, he pushed himself up to a sitting position.

Indira was staring at him with terrified, wide eyes. The two Slayers who had tried to help him during the episode were still sitting beside him, their hands on his back and shoulders. The Pockla had sat back, and was peering up serenely at Claire, who’d pulled out a knife and had the blade pointed right at their chest.

“It’s okay - I’m fine, Claire!” Andrew said, scrambling upright.

Except he heard nothing.

He could feel his vocal cords vibrating as he spoke, but the words never met his ears. There was nothing but heavy, suffocating silence. His hand flew to his throat.

“Am I talking?” he tried to say.

Claire was staring at him. Her lips were moving, but Andrew couldn’t hear a word. The hand at his throat rose to his ear.

Claire was still talking. Someone grabbed Andrew’s shoulder and swung him around - he was facing Mary now, and she was talking, too. And so was Indira, and Aisha, and Melanie. But Andrew couldn’t hear any of them.

He swallowed, and ran one finger along the shell of his ear.

“Oh,” he said weakly.

And he couldn’t hear that either.


	2. Chapter 2

Back in the underground catacombs of Italy Squad HQ, a phone buzzed. Then another. And another. There was a frantic bustle of activity as people scrambled for their phones. They’d anticipated a mass text from the away team; everyone in HQ was waiting with bated breath for news about their missing teammate. But _this_ text was far from what they’d expected. Throughout HQ, there was a wave of startled reactions, from gasps to stunned silence, as people opened their messages.

“Oh my God - _Andrew_.”

Posey was on the couch in the lounge, her knees drawn up to her chest. Her face was pale as she stared down at her phone screen.

Natalia sat down heavily next to her, her own phone glowing. “I can’t believe it. Mr. Wells - deaf? How?”

“It says. He did it to save Indira.”

“Of course he would,” Natalia murmured. “God, at least she’s okay.”

“Goddamnit, Indira,” Sophie snapped from behind them. “If she’d been more careful--!”

“Oi, don’t blame Indira!” Natalia interrupted, twisting around to glare at Sophie over the back of the couch. “Slayer stuff is dangerous, and any oneof us could have gotten snatched. And Andrew would have done the same for any of us.”

From the corner of the room, came a new voice. “Come on - you guys don’t really think that’s a _noble_ thing to do, right? It’s more stupid than anything.”

They all turned; in the doorway to the training center, Simone was lounging against the frame, her arms crossed. Her phone dangled from one hand as she surveyed the lounge with a bored expression. Her combat boots were laced up to mid-calf, and a denim jacket was slung over one shoulder.

Natalia spluttered, looking momentarily lost for words.

So it was Posey who said, in almost a squeak: “Why would you say that, Simone?!”

Simone shrugged, and crossed her ankles. “Look, it’s too bad Indira got herself caught by that psycho - whatever. But our Watcher can’t go around giving up senses because one of us got hurt. How the hell is he supposed to lead us if he can’t hear? You gotta let the weaker ones go. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link and all that. I mean . . . “ And here, she paused for effect. “If this is all true, that is.”

“‘True’? What are you talking about?” Sophie said sharply.

“You must have noticed. Mr. Wells has a bit of a tendency to tell _stories_. Thinks it makes us like him more. I wouldn’t be all that surprised if this was all just another ruse to paint himself as a hero.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Natalia spat.

Simone glowered. “Mind your mouth.”

“Mr. Wells wouldn’t do that!” Sophie insisted. “Sure, sometimes he exaggerates a bit, but he wouldn’t lie about something like this! He didn’t even send the text - it was from Mary!”

“Yeah, sure,” Simone replied, rolling her eyes. “Whatever. Our _gallant heroes_ will be back soon enough, so we’ll see who’s right then, huh? Anyway, I need to get back to training. Catch you guys later.” She rolled her shoulders and straightened, and then stalked back into the training room. The door slammed shut behind her.

“Bitch,” Natalia hissed under her breath. “Remind me how she got sent to us?”

“She got thrown out of Chicago Squad,” Sophie replied. “Andrew was the only Watcher to give her a chance after that.”

Natalia sighed heavily.

After a pause, Posey spoke up: “You guys . . . you guys really don’t think Mr. Wells is lying about this, right?”

“Hey, don’t let Simone get inside your head,” Natalia said. “There is _no way_ this is a lie.”

Sophie nodded. “I know you haven’t known Andrew long, but I’ve been in the squad almost a year now. Andrew likes to tell stories, sure, but he doesn’t toy with emotions like that. It’s always silly stuff, and when you spend enough time around him, you get to know immediately what’s honest and what’s a little embellished. This doesn’t sound like one of his tall tales at all.”

“Oh. Alright,” Posey said. Then, she heaved a sigh and stared up helplessly at the other two. “So, what are we gonna do? We have to help him somehow.”

“I don’t know what we can do,” Sophie replied. She drew a hand across her face, looking worn. “This is really big. God, what if Andrew can’t even be our Watcher anymore?”

“Don’t say that!” Natalia snapped. “Of course he can. We’ll figure things out.”

“But how? Demon deals are really hard to loophole, and we’d be risking Indira’s life if we tried that.”

“That’s not what I mean. We can help him _adapt_. I don’t know - hook up lights to our alarm system, stuff like that.”

Sophie looked uncertain. “But there’s a lot. Like, he’s always telling us to listen to our surroundings and talk to each other on the field. Hell, he even watches Empire Strikes Back every time he gets back from an away mission, and how he’s going to do that tonight?”

“I’m pretty sure he knows every line of that movie,” Posey pointed out.

“ _And_ DVD’s have closed captioning in the set-up, remember?” Natalia added irritably. “Look - yeah, certain things are probably going to change, but we can work around them. We’re not gonna lose Andrew as our Watcher, and he needs us now. But we gotta not be headless chickens about it!”

Sophie scowled at the jibe. “Right. So what do you have in mind?”

But before either Natalia or Posey could say anything, one of Italy Squad’s five Wiccans stepped up in front of them. Mina had her long, dark hair in the loose ponytail she kept it in when she was working, and she was carrying a stack of notebooks in her arms.

“Here,” she said, taking one off the top and handing it to Posey. “We’ve been tracking down whatever notebooks we have - there’s not enough for everyone, so you’ll have to share, or type stuff on your phone. But if you want your own, go talk to Arjun. He’s doing a run for new notepads.” With her chin, she indicated one of the other Wiccans, who was talking to a group of Slayers at the end of the hall.

“How soon is Mr. Wells going to be here?” Sophie asked.

“Soon enough. The text came in as soon as they landed, so we sent the girls that Andrew’s known the longest to meet them at the airport. They’ll escort the team back - should be here in an hour or so.”

“What’s the plan?” Natalia asked. “For when he gets here, I mean.”

“Be supportive, don’t crowd him, and let Mr. Wells do his job. Keep an eye on Indira; she’s been through a lot. But don’t crowd her either.”

“Will that be enough, though?” said Sophie. “Should we do something to get things ready before they arrive?”

“Like what?”

Sophie shrugged.

“Let’s not overwhelm them,” Mina said firmly, now flipping open one of the notebooks to a page with a handful of scribbles on it. “But I’m polling who here knows any kind of sign language - even just a little. Any of you guys know anything?”

“But Andrew doesn’t know any yet, does he?” Sophie pointed out.

Mina rolled her eyes. “Maybe not, but he’s going to be learning, and we’re all going to have to learn, too. I’m trying to figure out where we stand right now. So - anything?”

“I know the alphabet. And ‘thank you’,” Posey put in helpfully.

“ASL?”

“No. British.”

“Hmm.” Mina pulled a pen out of her pocket and scratched her chin with the end. “So that’s four, so far. Two for ASL - Nita can even hold a conversation apparently - one for the Italian one, and one BSL.” She flicked open the pen and jotted down a short line in her notebook. “We’ll figure out the decisions later.”

Then she pushed the pen back into her pocket and strode off, already peeling off another notebook to hand out.

“She’s handling this well,” Posey commented, as she watched Mina mingle with the rest of the Squad.

“What?” Natalia said. “No - that’s just how Mina freaks out. Just wait until she runs out of things to do; you’ll see.” She sighed, and shrugged one shoulder. “This is weird for all of us. _We’re_ the front lines; we’re the ones who are supposed to get hurt. Not our Watchers. Not Mr. Wells.”

Solemnly, Posey and Sophie nodded.

\-----

The Slayers were treating him funny.

At least, that’s how it felt. Andrew wasn’t really sure. He peered up at his entourage of ten as they made their way down the stone passage into the underground catacombs. Were the girls really watching him more intently, more frequently, than usual? Or was he just imagining they were because he kept staring at them, gauging and analyzing their every reaction?

The tip of Andrew’s foot caught on a step. He stumbled slightly - and then there were four separate pairs of hands on his arms and back, steadying him.

Okay - they were _definitely_ treating him funny.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said, and the hands withdrew, but now there was that stress that tightened everyone’s expression each time he spoke. Andrew wondered if he was talking too loud. “I got it,” he added, taking extra care to pitch his voice low.

To his right, Melanie opened her mouth to say something, but then stopped herself, as if she had just remembered he couldn’t hear. She closed her mouth and looked away. Which was silly - they all had phones they could type on.

“I can still read,” Andrew told her petulantly.

Melanie hesitated, then dug her phone out of her pocket. She punched something out on the keypad and handed it over to him.

 _“was just going 2 say b careful_ , _”_ glowed on the screen.

“Oh,” he said. “Okay. Yeah, sure.”

Andrew handed the phone back, feeling something sink in his chest. Were people going to talk to him less now because it took extra effort to write things down? He’d already spent most of his life being the ignored kid, the one left out of conversations and pushed to the back of the room.

His left hand was rubbing nervously at his opposite forearm. When Andrew noticed it, he snatched it back and shoved the hand deep in his pocket. He was a _Watcher_ ; he couldn’t show any uncertainty or agitation. He had to be an unflappable Captain Janeway for his team. They’d be looking to him in these trying times, and if he acted worried, they would be too.

So, thinking hard about Janeway’s composure when she was face-to-face with the Borg Queen in “Dark Frontier”, Andrew pushed ahead of his entourage, holding his head high.

At the bottom of the stairs was the entrance to Italy Squad HQ. The front door was security locked with a fingerprint-sensitive touchpad and a ten-digit passcode (Andrew had seen enough action movies to know that a fingerprint alone was all too easily stolen), and he deftly tapped in his clearances.

The door slid open. Immediately, Andrew stepped back.

The lounge was packed. It wasn’t uncommon for the lounge to be crowded; it was a popular hangout for Italy Squad in between training sessions and patrols. But the room had only been designed to comfortably hold about twenty-five people, and never before had what looked like all forty-eight members of Italy Squad tried to squeeze in at the same time. Every square inch of space was taken up by a Slayer or Wiccan, either curled up tight into their personal bubble or sprawled out lazily across their neighbors. Five girls were squeezed into the loveseat in the center of the room, and two more were perched on the armrests. And when Andrew walked in, every pair of eyes turned to stare straight at him.

Andrew swallowed, and put on his most winning Han Solo grin.

It seemed that most of the squad didn’t quite seem to know how to react. Several of them smiled back, but apprehension was written clear on their faces. A half dozen took an awkward step forward, but ended up mostly just jostling their neighbors.

Well, that was okay. Andrew was the leader; it was his job to offer them guidance.

“Um,” he said, and the silence on his ears was suddenly heavier than it had been a moment ago.

He licked his lips. There had to be something he could say. Maybe - what was it that Captain Sisko had said to his crew in “What You Leave Behind”, again? No, that wouldn’t be quite right; this wasn’t Italy Squad’s series’ finale.

“So. Um.”

And that was when Mina - unflappable, dependable Mina - rescued him. She extracted herself from the crowd and stepped forward, a notebook held out in front of her. On the page, in bold block letters, she’d written: “ _Welcome home, Mr. Wells, Indira, and away team!_ ”

Andrew face lit up, and he hurried over the last few feet to throw his arms around her. “Aw, thank you!”

Under the unexpected hug, Mina stiffened slightly, but she brought up a hand and awkwardly patted his back. She tolerated his physical gesture of affection for a moment, the notebook squashed uncomfortably between them.

That seemed to break the odd stasis holding over the rest of the Slayers. Over Mina’s shoulder, Andrew saw a wave of movement as the rest of the team pushed forward. Some were carrying notebooks, some had cellphones, and others just wore open smiles and reached out to him with warm hands.

He couldn’t give out hugs fast enough. There were so many familiar faces, and he felt his heart swell in his chest to see the charges he’d missed so much - there was Posey and Nita and CJ and Ava, and Maja and Sun-ok. Hands were on his shoulders; arms were around his back. He felt a bit like he was drowning, but it was the kind of drowning that made him grin until his cheeks hurt.

Mina was pushed back by the onslaught of the rest of the squad, and she seemed to be nonplussed by her teammates’ enthusiastic greetings. From the corner of his eye, Andrew could see Indira receiving much of the same treatment as he was, but more gingerly, as if the other Slayers were worried that too vigorous a hug might reopen her wounds.

After what felt like an age, the wave of welcome died down. Andrew was left standing in the center of the room, and the whole team was staring at him expectantly. Suddenly self-conscious, Andrew straightened the hem of his shirt and coughed in what he figured was probably a dignified manner.

Then Mina’s notebook was in front of him again. She flipped the page; on the next sheet, it said: “ _Are you doing okay?”_

Andrew nodded decidedly. “Perfectly. A small thing like a little hearing loss isn’t going to keep _your_ Watcher down!”

If Mina was dubious, she didn’t show it. She hardly blinked, and wrote next: _“When is the mission debriefing?_ ”

Andrew glanced around the room. Everyone was already here, it seemed, and all attention was focused on him.

“No time like the present!” he declared. With a sweeping gesture, he signaled for his audience to all take a seat.

When everyone seemed to have found at least a halfway comfortable position, he lifted his chin.

“It was an incredible journey of courage and valor,” he said importantly. “A legend for the ages! The locator spell and scrying that Mary performed for us--” He paused to give an acknowledging nod in her direction. “--proved to be as invaluable a resource as the Force itself, ‘cause it led us straight to our lost comrade! Lady Genevieve has a dark heart - she’s no Vader who’ll come around at the last minute. She’s more of a King Ghidorah, vicious and sadistic. And I’m saying that as someone who has a lot of respect for the redemption arc.”

The rest of the speech continued in much the same manner. Many of the squad exchanged looks and shifted uneasily in their seats. When Maja lifted her eyebrows at Puteri, Andrew licked his lips and threw in a few extra weighted words into his next sentence.

Nothing could change. He didn’t want it to. He could still see the hesitation and unease in his team’s expressions when they looked at him. But maybe, if he painted the story of Indira’s rescue with all the flourishes he’d learned from writing fanfiction and being Dungeon Master, they would see him as the same reliable and compassionate Watcher they’d come to trust. He couldn’t lose that trust. He _couldn’t_.

“It was like ‘Sacrifice of Angels’ in Deep Space Nine, except that there wasn’t actually like any army, and there wasn’t any fighting either, ‘cause main HQ didn’t clear us to go after Lady Genevieve, and besides that’s kinda dangerous. But it was an epic race against time!”

At the back of the room, Nisha visibly sighed, then stood up and slipped into the training center. A couple nearby Slayers scowled as she passed, but no one stopped her.

Andrew felt his stomach twist uncomfortably. He forced himself to turn away from the door that swung shut behind her and pressed on.

He gestured emphatically as he spoke, and the remaining squad, seemingly determined to make up for Nisha’s absence, watched him with renewed interested. But as he continued, one by one, the glazed looks returned.

And then suddenly, they were all staring at him with expressions of horror and disgust. Andrew froze.

No - they weren’t looking at him _._ They were looking at something _behind_ him.

Andrew turned. Simone was standing there, with her hands on her hips and an amused expression on her face. There was a bag at her feet.

Simone was saying something, and whatever it was, the others didn’t like it. There was fury painted across their expressions, and now Natalia had jumped to her feet and was shouting something at Simone.

“What?” Andrew asked. But the Slayers who were close enough to hear him only glanced at him uneasily, evidently unwilling to translate what was being said.

“ _What_?” Andrew demanded again.

After a moment’s hesitation, Katie flipped open a notepad and scribbled something down. She passed it over to him.

“ _Simone was testing if you were really deaf by making fun of you._ ”

“Oh,” he said quietly. He swallowed. “Um. What kind of things?”

But before Katie could make up her mind about whether or not she wanted to copy out Simone’s words, Simone had snatched up her bag and shoved by Andrew toward the exit of HQ.

“Simone, what--?” Andrew began, making to go after her.

But then there was suddenly a hand on his elbow, stilling him.

Andrew glanced down at Katie, who shook her head. She let go of his elbow for a moment to write a line in her notepad, and then she pushed the sheet back up to him.

“ _You’re better off w/o her_.”

“But she’s Italy Squad! She’s my responsibility!”

Again, Katie was shaking her head. She wrote: “ _Let her go. She won’t stay._ ”

“But I have to try!” He wrenched his arm away and started after Simone.

But then CJ was standing in front of him, her lips pressed together in a hard line of anger. She shoved a phone into his hands.

“ _She said she can’t trust a cripple to lead her.”_

Andrew gaped wordlessly at the screen. Shame rose like bile in his belly.

CJ snatched back her phone and typed furiously. When she handed it back to him, the message now read: “ _We don’t want her here. If you bring her back, we’re throwing her out.”_

“I-- . . .” Andrew began, but he let his voice trail off. He felt frozen, and the hot shame in his stomach was beginning to make him feel sick.

By the time he looked up again, Simone was already gone.

He stared helplessly at closed door. Suddenly, the air felt very heavy around him, as if everything that had happened over the past seventy-two hours had become a tangible weight. Heat prickled behind his eyes, and his lower lip trembled.

A hand settled on Andrew’s shoulder. Melanie had come up behind him and was watching him with a sympathetic expression. She held out a notepad.

“ _Are you okay_?”

Andrew nodded, and rubbed hard at his eyes. He couldn’t show weakness. These girls looked up to him.

Melanie frowned, evidently unconvinced. Andrew set his jaw and forced a smile. Melanie had been one of the very first members of Italy Squad, and maybe she could see through him, but the others had to believe none of this was getting to him. He was their _captain_.

Melanie flicked open her pen again. She wrote:

“ _You’ve been busy the past couple days. You should probably get some sleep anyway.”_

And again, Andrew nodded, this time relieved for the ready escape from the scrutinizing gazes of forty-eight teammates. “Yeah. I’m really bad at sleeping on planes you know? I tend to get airsick if I try, so I just don’t. Even though the dramamine totally helps.”

“ _I’ll help you get settled_.”

Melanie turned to say something to the room at large, then took Andrew’s elbow and led him away. He didn’t bother to point out he could walk himself; the hand on his arm was grounding, and he’d always liked casual touches.

Melanie brought him down a hallway through the living quarters, down to where Andrew shared a room with some of his senior Slayers. She pushed the door open for him.

Inside, three sets of bunk beds were pushed up against the walls, each mattress decorated with its own distinct flavor. One was very simple, with rumpled blue sheets, a single teddy bear, and a book poking out from under the pillow. Others were more elaborate; the bed above the one with the blue sheets had a paisley-patterned tapestry flung over the top and elephant-shaped lights strung along the headboard. And, on the far side of the room, there was one top bunk with a Captain America hoodie hanging off the side, starships swinging from the ceiling above, and an action figure tucked up by the pillow.

Andrew took a step toward his bed, but was suddenly stopped by Melanie shoving her notepad in front of him and jabbing her finger at a line she’d written earlier:

“ _Are you okay?_ ”

“I’m fine - just need some shut-eye,” Andrew replied, putting on what he hoped was a cheery voice.

Melanie pursed her lips. She pulled out her pen and scrawled at the bottom of the page:

“ _Your debriefing - you haven’t given us a speech like that since the first two months you were with us. We’ve told you we can’t understand you when you reference things we haven’t all seen.”_

Andrew flinched. It was true; they had. But in his desperation to ensure his squad still looked up to him, he’d forgotten. “I’m sorry,” he said earnestly. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

Melanie was writing again.

“ _Did we make you uncomfortable about being deaf?_ ”

“No, it wasn’t you!” Andrew said quickly. “It’s just . . .” He hesitated, then heaved a breath. It was just him and his most senior Slayer here now. Even Captain Picard confided in Counselor Troi sometimes. “It’s just that I want you guys to still think of me as your devoted Watcher.”

Melanie shot him a wry look and wrote: “ _How could we not? Now you even have the battle scar to prove it._ ”

“‘Battle scar’ . . . ?” Andrew read aloud. Then his eyes widened, and he touched one ear wonderingly. A cautious smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “It kind of is, isn’t it?”

She nodded. Again, she pointed at the first line on the page.

“ _Are you okay_?”

“I am now. Thanks, Melanie. You’re the best!”

She smiled and reached over to give him a friendly pat on the back.

That was when the phone in Andrew’s pocket began to vibrate.

He pulled it out; the caller ID on the screen read: “ _Mr. Giles_ ”. On pure instinct, Andrew very nearly picked up. He was only stopped by Melanie, who held out her hand and pointed at herself.

Andrew paused. It’d been almost two weeks since anyone had heard from Giles; they’d been leaving messages to update him on the day-to-day of Slayer Organization, but he hadn’t been replying. This could be important.

But if he handed the phone over, Melanie would have to explain to Mr. Giles about everything that had happened. And even if Andrew’s squad still wanted him around, what if the Scoobies thought he wasn’t competent anymore? He had, after all, lost Simone within twenty minutes of coming home.

But this was the first real big gig they had given him. He couldn’t let them down.

Melanie was watching him questioningly. She said something - it looked like “ _Andrew?_ ” on her lips.

Andrew’s fingers curled tighter around his phone. It vibrated once more, then fell still.

Melanie looked worried, and Andrew tried to give her a reassuring smile.

There was another buzz. The notification on Andrew’s screen read: “ _One new voicemail_ ”.

“Here,” Andrew said, finally passing the phone over. “Can you translate the voicemail for me? I can text back.”

Melanie still looked a little unsettled, but she nodded. She tucked Andrew’s phone against her ear, and with her free hand, copied out the message.

“ _M. Giles wants update on Indira retrieval. Says he’ll send someone to deal with Genevieve asap.”_

“Thanks,” Andrew said as he took the phone back.

Into a new text, he typed: “ _Sorry missed your call. Make sure you send sum1 who works fast - the Lady is a real threat. The rescue mission was a success._ ”

It wasn’t a lie. Indira was home safe and sound and just needed a little time to destress. And it wasn’t like he intended to keep the full story quiet forever. He just needed a little time to get everything under control, so that when the Scoobs found out, they saw only a Watcher that commanded his team with unparalleled efficiency and success.

Just for a little while, this would be his secret.

\-----

“Cordelia! _Cordelia_!”

Cordelia sighed and lifted her head from the bench where she’d been enjoying the perfect intensity of sunlight - May heat, with a few puffy clouds passing by overhead.

“What is it, Jonathan?” she said. “And don’t you know it’s good manners to announce yourself before dropping in on someone else’s heaven?”

Jonathan skidded to a stop next to her bench. He was breathing hard - not wheezing, though. Heaven tended to take care of conditions like asthma.

“There’s something wrong with my scrying,” he panted. “It’s so blurry I can’t make anything out. Can I borrow your scrying pool?”

Cordelia frowned, and sat up properly. “It’s blurry?” she said. “I’ve never heard of that happening before.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m doing it wrong. Like the spells I didn’t always get right back on Earth. But I need to see what’s going on!”

“What have we talked about with watching Earth too often?” Cordelia replied pointedly.

“I know, but I just want to know how Andrew’s mission turned out! I promise I’ll hang out with Doyle, too. Just let me borrow your scrying pool for a minute.”

Cordelia considered this. “Hang out with Doyle, _and_ you meetone more friend of mine,” she bartered.

“Okay, deal,” Jonathan agreed. “Now _please_?”

Cordelia rolled her eyes, but obligingly stood. “Yeah, yeah. Cool your horses.” She gestured for him to follow and then led him back down the sidewalk to the enormous five-star hotel behind them.

They walked up the ornate marble front steps, and a doorman pulled open the large, frosted glass door for them.

“Thank you, Scott,” Cordelia said graciously, and he smiled.

The hotel lobby was full of people, all bustling and chatting. A few greeted Cordelia as they passed by; several even nodded at Jonathan. Jonathan shrank closer to Cordelia, feeling shy.

“Who are all these people?” he muttered. “Your heaven is so crowded.”

“They’re other souls, of course. The employees are people loved their work on Earth. Or those who just want to try it on for a day or a week. Then there are people who come to stay at the hotel because it’s nice to pass through a new place sometimes.”

“But I thought this was your heaven? Or is it one of theirs?”

“Both. And neither,” she replied cryptically. “This much is collaborative.” Then she glanced at Jonathan, one eyebrow lifted. “You really _don’t_ get out of your corner of heaven much.”

Jonathan shrugged, avoiding her gaze.

“The stuff that’s all mine is up this way,” Cordelia added, leading him toward the elevator at the end of the lobby. She pressed the up button, and the doors slid open.

The elevator inside was made entirely of transparent glass, with gold accents lining the corners. Cordelia stepped easily inside, but Jonathan hesitated.

“Why is it glass?” he asked. “I, uh. Don’t like heights.”

Cordelia shot him a look. “What are you scared of? You’re already dead.”

But she waved a hand, and the glass was replaced by oak panelling.

“Thanks,” he muttered, and followed her inside.

“Don’t mention it.”

Cordelia pressed the button for the top floor, and the elevator doors slid shut. Smoothly, they rose. Up and up and up, until Jonathan was sure they’d gone higher than any hotel on Earth could reach. Had atmosphere been an issue in heaven, the oxygen would be getting thin. By each passing moment, Jonathan was more and more intensely grateful that Cordelia had changed out the transparent paneling.

Finally, the elevator stopped.

The doors opened on a brightly lit penthouse suite with floor-to-ceiling windows all along the opposite wall. Sheer curtains hung on either side and pooled slightly on the polished hardwood floors. Cordelia stepped out of the elevator and led Jonathan in, past plush loveseats with paisley throw pillows and under an enormous crystal chandelier. They passed through a wide hallway branching off from the first room - and as Jonathan peered around the corners to other rooms, he saw what looked like full malls and spas leading out further than his eyes could reach.

Jonathan had to admit: Cordelia certainly knew how to build a heaven.

“Here we are,” Cordelia announced finally.

They were standing in . . . an office, of all things. An office that was clearly used: there were enormous stacks of paper on the desk, all neatly sorted, with a few files lying open in the center. The light on the computer monitor marked it to be on standby mode.

Cordelia spotted Jonathan’s perplexed look. “Higher power stuff,” she said. “What, you didn’t think you were the only person to think to come running to me when you have a little bit of trouble, did you?”

“Part of your heaven is . . . helping other people?”

Cordelia shrugged. “It’s not a bad job.”

Jonathan was quiet for a moment. Then he murmured: “I really fucked it up, didn’t I?”

“What are you talking about?”

He shrugged. “Look at what you did in the time after high school. And then there’s me.”

“Hey,” Cordelia said firmly. “I’m not going to pretend you didn’t make some royally shitty mistakes, but you made it up here, didn’t you? You can’t have done all bad.”

“Maybe the Powers made a mistake.”

“We don’t make mistakes,” she retorted. “And anyway, I thought you were desperate to scry for Andrew? Ring a bell? You know - the friend you tried to talk out of being evil, and that you took care of all summer even though he betrayed you? And then he murdered you, and you’re still looking after him. Which is your choice, but I still can’t decide whether it’s admirable or just plain stupid.”

“H-hey! I told you - he was an idiot, yeah, but he really feels the remorse,” Jonathan said defensively. “Which is more than I can say for a lot of the guys from high school, and I still cared about _them_.”

Cordelia lifted her eyebrows. “Remorseful, huh? So, not at all like how you feel about your mistakes, right? It’s not like you feel really bad about what you did, so of course you don’t deserve the same forgiveness you give Andrew.”

Jonathan elected not to dignify that with a response.

“Really, Jonathan. You’re in _heaven_. Try to relax. You weren’t that much a ray of sunshine in high school either, but the entire time we’ve hung out up here, I don’t know if I’ve seen you smile even once.”

Jonathan ignored her. He peered around the room, looking for a standing body of water. “Where’s your scrying pool?” he asked.

Cordelia sighed. “You _really_ need to get out of your own corner of heaven more often,” she said. She strode across the room to where a large, ornate mirror was fixed on the wall. With an elegant movement, she gestured toward it. “Try a looking glass.”

“Oh. Right. Thanks.” Jonathan stepped up next to her to stand in front of the mirror. He reached out with one hand and tapped the glass.

For a moment, their reflections just stared back at them. Then the image in the glass began to swirl, the colors blending together in a whirlpool. But when the motion slowed and settled on a new image, it was so blurry that they couldn’t make out anything at all. There might have been three people in the image, or none at all - there was no way to make out any features in the scene being shown to them.

Jonathan groaned. “See?” he said. “I hoped it was just the pool, but I guess I’m doing something wrong.”

“That’s strange,” Cordelia said, her lips pursed thoughtfully.

She tapped the glass herself - the image swirled again, and this time, when it cleared, they were looking down on the clear scene of a ComicCon. Andrew was weaving his way between dealers’ stalls, weighed down with merchandise. He was wearing a Star Trek: Voyager uniform, command division, and as they watched, he stopped to chat amiably with a girl working behind one of the stalls. She said something in return, and he nodded.

Cordelia glanced over to Jonathan. “How’s that? Looks like his mission went fine.”

But Jonathan was frowning. “That can’t be right.”

“What? Come on, have a little faith in him.”

Jonathan shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, he hasn’t had time to go to a ComicCon all year because of Watcher duties, let alone make a cosplay for it. And he hates the Voyager uniform - he says it looks like pajamas! _And_ the rank pips are on the wrong side!” Jonathan looked up at Cordelia, his eyes wide. “I knew a few spells to interfere with scrying from witches on Earth. Is it possible someone could do that in heaven?”

For a moment, Cordelia said nothing. Her eyes were fixed on the image in front of her, and her lips were pressed into a thin line. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and dangerous: “The only ones who’d be strong enough to do that to a Higher Power are the Powers That Be. You think that they’re giving me _fake_ ones?”

“I-I’m sorry,” Jonathan stammered. “I d-d-didn’t m-mean to suggest--”

“Oh, _hell no_!” Cordelia exploded, and she spun around to stare right at Jonathan. He shrank back - but she was continuing, and . . . she was agreeing with him? “They jerked me around like a puppet on a string when I was alive, and I did my share, and now that I’m dead and earned my place in paradise, they go and pull _this_ on me? On _us_? The _hell_ am I letting this slide! If this is fake, how many more fake visions have they sent me?!”

“I-I don’t know,” Jonathan said. “Maybe I’m wrong, though. Maybe Andrew found the time and was working on the cosplay when I wasn’t watching, a-and maybe he changed his mind about the Voyager uniforms, and was distracted when he did the pips and j-just never noticed . . .”

“Sounds like a fake vision to me,” Cordelia said, looking even more thunderous. “And they started blocking your visions, too, as soon as you talked to me about Indira and we went to fight for her! It seems a bit like they’re trying to hide something, doesn’t it?”

“Wait, you think that they’re the reason I can’t scry anymore?”

“Makes sense,” Cordelia replied. “I’ve never heard of anyone in heaven, even a common soul, forgetting how to scry. But if they thought you were feeding me information too close to whatever it is they’re trying to hide from me, they’d block you off - because _that’s the kind of good-for-nothing two-faced bastards they are_!” she finished, shouting up in the general direction of the ceiling.

“W-what do you think they’re trying to hide?” Jonathan asked.

“How could I know? If this is really fake, I don’t know how long these false visions could have be going on for. It could have been ages, and the Powers That Be just didn’t pay enough attention to Andrew to fool you. But they know _my_ friends a little too well.”

“So what should we do?” Jonathan said. “Should we ask Doyle to scry for us?”

Cordelia shook her head tightly. “We don’t know how far this interference goes. They might already be messing with him, too. No, we have to see what’s going on down there directly.”

A small, dangerous smile twitched at her lips.  

“We’re going to pay Dennis a visit.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

_Warren_. The name felt like poison in Xander’s mind. He felt sick to his stomach, and his hands curled into fists in his pockets.

Warren. The asshole who . . . who - god, Xander didn’t even know where to start. That year of crime. The sexbots. Shooting Buffy. _Killing_ Tara. Warren was possibly Xander’s least favorite sonuvabitch that he’d had the misfortune to encounter in almost ten years of evil-fighting. And now, that asshole had the indecency to come back from the dead.

Warren. Not Joyce. Not Tara. Not Anya. _Warren_. The injustice of it all made Xander want to scream.  

Xander and Buffy had been sitting by Willow’s bed, numb in shock as the name echoed in their heads. Willow had pulled herself upright, freshly woken from the trance she’d slipped into in order to withstand the pain of physical torture (oh, Xander couldn’t _wait_ to get his hands on that asshole).

“Warren,” Buffy had echoed hoarsely. “You’re sure?”

“You mean the skinless creep with a sadistic streak a mile wide and a singular obsession with flaying me? Yeah, pretty sure. He’s back, and he’s a threat.”

Xander’s chair screeched as he jumped up. He ignored it. “We have to alert the Squads,” he declared, beginning to pace. “He and Amy got into _Scotland_ HQ. Who knows how much other damage they could do? Maybe it’s time to dig up Andrew’s old security ideas, you know, the--”

Suddenly, he broke off, his eyes widening. Buffy and Willow both stared at him.

“ _Andrew_ ,” Xander breathed. “We can’t tell him this just over a phone call or an email. This is going to bring up all sorts of things he’s been trying to put behind him.”

Buffy looked grim. “You’re probably right.”

“So, we’ll be needing Witch Airlines,” Willow said, swinging her legs over the side of her bed and making to stand up.

“Whoa, wait!” Xander caught Willow’s arm and held her still. “You just went through Dr. Warren’s house of horrors. No way you’re going anywhere.”

“But we need to get to Italy, right?”

“ _I’ll_ fly,” Xander said firmly. “The old fashioned way, with temperature controlled cabins and questionable airplane food.”

“Besides,” Buffy added. “I’m not sure how Andrew is going to feel about _you_ breaking the news about Warren. Or how you will feel about it, for that matter.”

A shadow passed over Willow’s face. “Point,” she granted.

“I’ll call him - let him know I’m on my way,” Xander declared, as Willow sank back onto her bed, looking troubled for the first time since she’d woken.

Oddly, Andrew hadn’t picked up his phone, and Xander had had to leave a voicemail. But two minutes later, a text came in: “ _U rly have to come all the way down? Wouldn’t it be easier to email me?”_

No, Xander assured him. This was something they had to talk about in person.

 _“OK,”_ said the next text. “ _But make sure u bring all the paper files about whatever’s going on. All of them.”_

And over the next couple hours, Andrew had texted several more times to be sure Xander would bring _all_ the files. Xander wasn’t entirely sure what Andrew’s preoccupation with the paper files was, but he didn’t ask; who knew what Andrew’s latest documenting craze entailed.

The following day, Xander stood at the door of Italy Squad HQ, a manilla envelope in one hand. When he knocked, the door opened, and Xander recognized one of Andrew’s more senior Slayers - Claire, he remembered.

“Hi,” she said. “You’re here to see Mr. Wells?”

“Yeah,” he replied.

“I’ll bring you through to him.”

She gestured for Xander to follow, and she led him through the entry lounge and down the hall to the kitchen. As they passed by, other squad memebers fell quiet, or began to mutter amongst themselves. There was an odd atmosphere of tension running throughout the place, Xander thought. He didn’t know why it was there, but it was making him uneasy.

But then they entered the kitchen, and Xander put the worry to the back of his mind.

It appeared that Andrew had single-handedly taken on the entire duty of feeding his Slayer army. He was alone in the kitchen, where in the center of the counter, he’d set up a work station with a towering pile of sliced tomatoes, five full loaves of bread, several packages of sliced deli meat, and enormous tubs of mustard and mayonnaise. Two haphazardly stacked platters with somewhere around fifteen sandwiches each were already placed to the side. Andrew was working in a frenzied rhythm: six pieces of bread were laid out on the cutting board, mustard and mayonnaise were spread across three of slices, then ham and tomato, and the top piece of bread. Andrew sliced the finished sandwiches in half before setting them on the plate. He even cut the crusts off.

Claire didn’t call Andrew’s name. Instead, she walked right up to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. That struck Xander as a little odd, but he shook the thought off. Everyone knew Andrew got intense about certain things, like cooking, and he could be completely unresponsive to anything else when he was in the zone.

At Claire’s touch, Andrew looked up. She jerked her head toward the door, and Andrew followed her gaze; when he saw Xander standing there, his eyes flew wide.

And before Xander could so much as say ‘hello’ or wonder at Andrew’s deer-in-the-headlights expression, Andrew had burst into a breathless flow of babble.

“Hi, Xander! You’re here already! I hope you had a good flight, or more like a relaxing one, because a good flight would be super exciting like Han Solo’s piloting in A New Hope, and you probably shouldn’t get that kind of thing on a commercial flight. It would make me airsick, at least. On second thought, that wouldn’t be a good flight at all.”

Andrew was talking a little too fast, and a little too loud. Bewilderedly, Xander cast his gaze around the room, looking for empty energy drinks or a stack of candy wrappers.

“Claire, can you take over sandwich duty?” Andrew continued. “I’ve already done all the vegetarian and vegan and most of the ham, but remember that Katie is allergic to eggs, so no mayonnaise, and Posey doesn’t like tomatoes, and Raya’s gluten-free stuff is in the lower left cabinet.”

In response, Claire merely plucked a sheet off the fridge; the paper was headed in bold marker that read: “ _Food Restrictions Checklist_ ”.

“Oh, right. You have that,” Andrew said. “Well, I’m going to bring Xander into the office to talk, so see you later!”

And to Xander’s shock, Andrew actually grabbed his elbow to lead him away.

“Andrew--”

“It’s nice to see you again,” Andrew said, as if he hadn’t heard Xander. “You guys don’t come visit enough. I mean, it makes sense, since you’re all busy in Scotland with _HQ_ -HQ, but it can get so boring here in Italy and I miss hanging out with you guys. I hope things are going well in Scotland. I should come visit there some more, too. You guys still doing movie nights? You should be - it’s totally such a good way to bond. You should _see_ Italy Squad get together to watch The Empire Strikes Back.”

It was completely impossible to get a word in edgewise. Andrew sucked in a breath, and Xander opened his mouth - but Andrew was talking again, and pushing open the office door.

“So, if you’re coming all the way down to Italy, this has to be big news,” Andrew continued, as he strode into office - which was really just a well-lit room with waist-high stacks of books, several airmchairs, and a single desk in one corner. Andrew pulled Xander over to the desk and leaned casually up against the side. “Let me see the files!”

“Youmightwanttositdown,” Xander burst out, before Andrew could launch into another stream of babble.

But Andrew didn’t move. He just put out his hand and said again: “Files! _Pleeeease.”_

And so, with a sigh, Xander passed over the manilla folder. Andrew snatched it up, and began to rifle through the pages.

When Andrew made no sign of intending to sit down, Xander began: “I know this is going to come as a shock. But I thought you should hear it from me personally: Warren is back.”

He watched Andrew carefully, gauging his response. But Andrew did not react. He did not even look up from the page he was reading.

Xander frowned. “Andrew--?”

And that was when Andrew suddenly gasped, the blood draining from his face. He was staring at something on the page. “Oh my god. _Warren’s back_?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Xander said, bewildered. “He and Amy mounted an attack on Scotland HQ, and they got their hands on Willow--”

“Oh my god. H-he might hurt someone!” Andrew exclaimed, finally looking up from the page to stare at Xander.

“Andrew, are you listening to me at all?!”

Xander gestured at his ear in emphasis. Immediately, Andrew froze.

“H-how did you find out?” He seemed to visibly deflate, and he looked somehow even paler.

“Find _what_ out? About Warren? I told you, he attacked HQ--”

But Andrew was shaking his head. “I can’t read lips that well yet. You’ll have to write it down - maybe on your phone?”

“‘Read lips’ . . . ?” Xander echoed.

And then it clicked. Claire touching Andrew’s shoulder instead of calling his name. Andrew demanding the written files. The lack of reaction to everything Xander said.

Xander scrambled to dig his Blackberry out of his pocket. He typed: “ _What happened to your ears????”_

“Um. To save Indira from Lady Genevieve. I made a deal.”

“ _I thought that mission went smoothly???_ ”

“We-ell,” Andrew said, looking sheepish. “Indira is fine. Now. So it kind of did?”

 _“Details_ ”

Andrew shrugged. “Lady Genevieve hurt Indira before we could recover her. So I did the Winchester brother thing and summoned a Pockla demon to save her. And uh. Pockla demons require payment.” Wryly, he pointed at one ear.

“ _Is it permanent??”_

“Um. Yeah.”

For a moment, Xander was still. _Andrew was deaf._ The sentence rattled around his mind, indigestible. _Andrew was deaf_. He couldn’t freaking _hear_.

“Xan?”

He looked up. Andrew was watching him nervously.

“ _Why didn’t you tell us??_ ” Xander typed out.

“Because it wasn’t important.”

“ _Of course it’s important!”_

But when Xander shoved the phone in front of Andrew this time, Andrew looked away. He swallowed visibly. “Are you . . . are you going to take my Slayers away?”

Xander stared at him.

“Y-you can’t!” Andrew rushed on. “They need me! Especially if W-Warren’s back now. They don’t know what he can be like, not like I do. I can still be a Watcher. I’ve been looking for that symbol for Giles, and I think I’ve almost found it! I don’t have to retire!”

“ _I didn’t say that_ ,” Xander typed hastily. “ _But I need to talk to Buffy. This is big._ ”

“Do you think she’ll take them away?”

At Andrew’s fragile tone, Xander felt a sharp pang of sympathy. Andrew still wasn’t meeting his eyes, and he looked smaller than ever, his shoulders slumped forward and his eyes fixed on the screen of Xander’s phone.

And Xander knew how he felt. He and Andrew were the normal guys - the guys without special powers. Alright, Andrew could call a demon here and there, knew a half-dozen simple spells, but that was nothing compared to Buffy’s Slayer strength or Willow’s magic. He and Andrew weren’t meant to be great. They made do with that had.

Xander had long since adjusted to life with one eye. But at that moment, he could feel the gap in his vision more poignantly than he had in a while.

But sympathy or not, he had a global organization to run. He typed: “ _She won’t. You worked hard for Italy Squad. But it was STUPID to hide this. You being deaf is important to tactical decisions_.”

“I was gonna tell you guys,” Andrew protested. “Um, eventually.”

Xander huffed in frustration. “ _When_?! ” he wrote.

“Um . . .” Andrew shrugged. “I just wanted you guys to see that it didn’t make me any less useful. I w-wanted you guys to think of me like Geordi LaForge, whose blindness is never a problem. I just need a little time to get there, so I was gonna tell you when it was totally under control. I won’t let anything change!”

“ _You really thought you could hide it while I was here_?”

“People always complain I talk too much,” Andrew muttered. “I thought I could use it to my advantage. If I talked fast enough that it was hard for you to say anything, you wouldn’t know I couldn’t hear you. But if I just told you not to come at all, you’d be suspicious.”

Xander blinked. That was probably one of the most harebrained plans he’d ever heard. And . . . somehow, it’d worked, for about ten minutes.

“ _Any other developments I should know_?”

“Well, we’re all learning sign language now. Nita knows some, so she’s teaching us. And Natalia says that it’d be useful on the field even when I’m not there, ‘cause it’s a good way to convey information when we need to be quiet. Which is totally true, and maybe sign language should be a thing for the whole Slayer Organization? Oh,andSimoneisgone.” He blurted out the last sentence so fast that Xander almost didn’t catch it.

“ _What???_ ”

“Um, Simone left,” Andrew said again. Xander stared at him, but Andrew looked away and did not elaborate.

“ _How??_ ” Xander pressed.

Andrew hesitated. “She, uh . . . she . . .” He licked his lips nervously and dropped his voice to a whisper. “She said she didn’t want to work with a cripple. So she left.”

Oh, God. Poor Andrew. No wonder he hadn’t wanted anyone to know. Xander felt a surge of anger rise up in him on Andrew’s behalf - anger, and a twinge of guilt. He’d been the one to approve Simone’s transfer to Italy Squad in the first place, after all.

“I know, I should have told you guys that, too,” Andrew continued. “And I was gonna! But it’s only been a couple days, and I wanted to try to bring Simone back, and then no harm no foul, right? I mean, I’d also have to convince the rest of Italy Squad to let her come back. They don’t really like her right now.”  

Quickly, Xander typed out: “ _It’s okay. We don’t need her. She wasn’t a good fit. Not your fault._ ”

Andrew looked unconvinced.

Xander added: “ _With the Warren thing, we need to work with people we can trust. That was never Simone_.”

“Right,” Andrew muttered. “Warren. How did that happen?”

Without waiting for Xander’s response, Andrew picked up the manilla file again and began to scan the pages.

Xander sat back and let him read; all the information was in the file, and it would take too long to type out all the pertinent details on his phone’s keypad. As Andrew read, an odd expression of mixed tension and sadness came over his face. Somehow, it had the effect of making him look both younger and aged ten years.

When he had finished, Andrew swallowed, and pushed the manilla folder back on the desk.

“He’s really back,” he said, voice shaking slightly.

Xander nodded.  

“Because Amy saved him. They are - and were - dating?”

This time, Xander lifted his eyebrows and shrugged. Odd tastes, he supposed. Odd, unfortunate tastes.

“That’s weird,” Andrew said. “I, uh, never saw her hanging around when we were part of the Trio. I would have thought he’d say something if he got a new girlfriend. He never stopped talking about - about Katrina.”

“ _He had your complete loyalty then. Probably didn’t want you knowing he was seeing someone else_.”

“What do you mean?”

Xander shot him a disbelieving look, but when Andrew just blinked back at him, Xander shook his head. He gestured for Andrew to continue.

Andrew glanced down at the manilla folder next to him and visibly suppressed a shudder. “And what he and Amy did to Willow . . . he really is a monster.”

His voice had gone soft again.

“ _You ok?_ ” Xander typed.

“Totally,” Andrew said quickly. “We’ll double - no triple - our security! No way Amy and Warren are getting through to us.”

That wasn’t what Xander had meant, but he let it go. “ _We’ll update you on plans to deal with A &W_,” he typed. “ _I just wanted to break the news to you in person_.”

“I appreciate that,” Andrew told him. He pushed himself up from the desk. “Hey, I don’t know when you have to get back to Scotland, but Nita does her ASL class in an hour. We’ve only had two so far, so you won’t be that far behind if you wanna come. What do you think?”

He glanced at Xander hopefully.

And suddenly, Xander was struck by the understanding of everything that was about to change. Missions to be redistributed. Duties to be re-delegated. Communications to be adjusted - _languages_ to be learned. Whatever Andrew said about not letting anything change, Slayer Organization was on the verge of a major overhaul.

Xander supposed he’d better get started. He smiled, and nodded.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Jonathan, meet Dennis. Dennis, Jonathan.”

The man that Cordelia introduced was round-faced and young. He turned to Jonathan with a warm smile that gentled his already soft features.

“Nice to meet you, Jonathan,” he said.

Jonathan nodded. “Uh, hi.”

“Dennis here was the best roommate I ever had,” Cordelia said fondly. “Also the only roommate I ever had. But I can tell you - there’s no way you could find anyone else who can give such a _maz_ ing massages while being completely intangible.”

Dennis looked a little shy. “You’re too kind, Cordy. You were a pleasure to live with.”

“Humble, too. I appreciate that in a man.”

Dennis grinned sheepishly.

Dennis’ heaven was full of wide, open space. In every direction Jonathan looked, there were waves of grass - the tall, golden-colored kind that made him think of autumn. In the far distance to the west, there were blue streaks of a mountain range, and to the east, there was a sparkling sea. It was ridiculously pretty, but that was heaven for you.

And Dennis’ heaven, like Cordelia’s, was shared. A couple of backpackers had passed them by a few moments ago, and Jonathan could see their figures just beginning to vanish over a hill. Other hikers and campers dotted the landscape, if he looked carefully enough. It wasn’t nearly as crowded as Cordelia’s hotel, but it was also impossible to feel completely alone.

“So, Cordelia says you need help heading to Earth?” Dennis said to Jonathan, drawing him back from his people-watching.

“Uh-huh. Something’s messing with our scrying, so we want to go to Earth to see what’s going on. But I, uh. Don’t know how to haunt.”

“You moved on pretty fast, huh?”

Dennis’ voice was kind, but Jonathan thought he detected a faint note of sadness. It startled him.

“I-I guess?” he said. “What do you mean?”

“Most souls linger for a few hours or days after death. They still feel connected to the living.”

“Oh,” Jonathan murmured. Connection, huh? Considering his last conversation with Andrew, he could see how that missed him by. “Yeah. No, I guess I came right here. As soon as I, uh, died, I woke up in heaven.”

“I didn’t,” Dennis said. “I lingered for almost sixty years.”

Jonathan’s eyes widened. “But you said--!” He broke off. “Well, I guess if you were Cordelia’s phantom roommate, it must have been more than hours to days, but . . .”

“Yeah. I lingered a little too long, and by the time I was ready to move on, I’d forgotten how to. It wasn’t until Cordelia called me from heaven that I could finally find my way up.” Dennis paused, and smiled softly at Cordelia. “I’ll always appreciate that, Cordy.”

“Yeah, well. I owed you one, didn’t I? I don’t take my masseuse for granted.” Cordelia’s voice was flippant, but she was also smiling.

A little uncomfortable, Jonathan tucked his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. Now, this reminded him of high school: watching friendships from the sidelines, never a part of it. Always an outsider.

But then Dennis was looking at Jonathan again.

“I’m your cautionary tale,” he said. “Going down to Earth for short stints is fine, but you don’t want to get stuck there. That’s why most people scry. Less chance of getting trapped.”

“But if I moved on quickly, does that mean it’ll be easier for me to come back?”

Dennis shook his head. “Going down to Earth requires focusing on the very attachments that could get you stuck there. And once you’re down there, you forget yourself. We’re not meant to stray from heaven, so you obsess over whatever it was you went down there for in the first place. You forget everything else. Sure, you retain your general personality, but you forget there’s an afterlife, you forget everything else that was important to you. You fade.”

The thought made Jonathan feel slightly queasy. “Oh,” he said softly. “Then . . . why?” He stared over at Cordelia, bewildered. This was beginning to sound more and more like a bad plan.

But Cordelia lifted her eyebrows and smiled. “There’s a way around it.”

“An anchor,” Dennis agreed.

“A what?”

“An anchor,” Cordelia repeated. “Someone in heaven you tie yourself to. They call you back when you need them to, and they show you the way home. Travelling to Earth is going to be a lot easier for me because the whole higher power thing, and because I’ve already done it a few times, but Dennis is still going to be my anchor.”

“So I need an anchor, too?”

Cordelia nodded. “It has to be someone you know. Someone you trust.”

“Oh,” Jonathan said softly. Someone he trusted. Well, that could pose a difficulty. “Um, can you do it?” he asked quickly, staring up at Cordelia.

“Uh, no. I’m going down to Earth, too, remember? But I’m flattered you’d think of me.”

“Is there anyone else you can think of?” Dennis asked.

“Doyle?” Jonathan ventured helplessly.

But, again, Cordelia shook her head. “Someone you knew _in life_. You met him up here. Doesn’t count.”

“Which is unfair to young souls,” Dennis admitted. “Since they often don’t know many departed.”

“Oh. Um.”

“I’m sure you can think of _someone_ ,” Cordelia said. “We grew up in Sunnydale, for chrissake.”

“I dunno . . . ,” Jonathan muttered, staring at his shoes.

“Jeez, it doesn’t have to be like the golden relationship or anything. You just gotta have known them well enough to like them and trust that they want to help you.”

Jonathan frowned. Even that was a tall order. Again with the outsider thing; sure, not everyone in Sunnydale had been awful to him, but that didn’t mean they’d noticed him either. He’d been a shadow, and it felt like the only people who saw him had been the occasional kind-hearted teacher.

Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Let’s see - who do we know who’s dead?” she suggested. “Larry Blaisdell. Rodney Munson. Morgan Shay. Annie Vega.”

“This will take a while,” Jonathan mumbled.

“Then let’s shorten the list. Anyone whose funeral you attended?”

“That’s still a lot of people!”

“Humor me.”

Jonathan shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, I tried to go to everyone’s. There was Ms. Calendar, I guess--”

“Perfect!” Cordelia declared. “We’ll go pay Ms. Calendar a visit.”

“What? No!” Jonathan paled, and shook his head furiously.

“What? Do you not trust her?”

“No, it’s not that,” Jonathan said. “Ms. Calendar was nice to me. She, uh, talked to me after class. Tried to make me feel like someone was paying attention to me. I liked her.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Cordelia pressed, with strained patience.

“She, uh . . . “ Jonathan looked away. He continued, in a voice almost too low to hear: “She’ll want to know how I died. And I’ll have to tell her about the Trio. About what I did. She’ll be disappointed.”

“Jonathan.”

Cordelia moved to stand directly in front of him, and crossed her arms.

“Look,” she said. “You screwed up. Big time. And that’s gonna have consequences. Your favorite teacher being disappointed in you - that’s one of them. But Ms. Calendar isn’t gonna throw you out of heaven, and are you really going to give up on finding out what’s going on with Andrew and why your visions have been blocked, just because you’re too embarrassed to look her in the eye?”

And Jonathan knew she’d won. The thought of meeting Ms. Calendar still made his stomach twist into unhappy knots, but he needed to get back down to Earth. And if Ms. Calendar would help him get down there, he would face her and confess all.

“Alright,” he muttered. “I’ll talk to her.”

\------

A week after Xander’s visit to Rome, a shadow flickered in the corner of Andrew’s vision, as if someone had just entered the room. He turned his head to look, but saw nothing out of the ordinary - certainly no people. He frowned. A trick of the light, he decided.

Andrew was sitting in a private room of the state-of-the-art infirmary in Scotland HQ. The castle had a ridiculous number of facilities, Andrew thought. It wasn’t entirely fair. Italy Squad had only a single room stocked with over-the-counter first aid kits and a handful of bunks - not half a hospital worth of equipment, with their own doctors specializing in the supernatural kept on retainer.

Well, that was one of the perks of working at main HQ. Better resources, and you didn’t have to travel for special care.

Dr. Cho’s fingertips pressed gently at his temple, tilting his head. Andrew made a face as her otoscope pressed at his ear. It felt strange; he didn’t like it. But he sat still for her final check, fidgeting only with the hands he’d settled in his lap.

And then, finally, it was done. Dr. Cho flashed him a thumbs-up as she began to pack away her instruments.

“You can come in, guys!” Andrew called.

The door opened, and in filed Buffy, Willow, and Xander, all looking a little apprehensive. They each offered him a small, supportive smile as they met his gaze.

“ _Good?_ ” Willow signed.

Andrew grinned. “ _Yes_.”

He turned, and glanced to the open window, where a giant eye was now peering in. Cheerfully, he waved at Dawnie.

Dr. Cho had picked up a notepad and was scribbling something down. When she’d finished, she handed it over to Andrew, who scanned the page with a quick eye.

“Dr. Cho says I’m totally okay,” he announced to the room at large. “I mean, if Thor blasted a crater right next to me, I wouldn’t hear it. But other than that, I’m fine.”

“ _Good_ ,” Willow signed again.

Limited vocabulary or not, the gesture made Andrew smile.

Xander ran a finger behind the shell of his ear. “ _Aids_?” he mouthed.

Andrew shook his head. “Nu-uh. Everything in my ear works fine. It’s my auditory nerve that’s damaged, so there are no signals being sent to my brain. Hearing aids and implants aren’t gonna help.”

That made Xander frown, but Buffy just nodded, taking the news in stride.

She uncapped a dry-erase marker. On the surface of the whiteboard she’d brought, she wrote: “ _We’ll work on making HQ Andrew-friendly. Alarms are in the process of being converted to light signals. Also need to see what we can do about replacing walkie-talkies.”_

As Andrew read her message, he felt warm.

“Thank you, guys,” he said earnestly. “You’d make an even finer Starfleet crew than the Enterprise-D.”

Buffy rolled her eyes.

At that moment, something caught the attention of the others in the room. Willow and Xander and Buffy all stared past Andrew, listening. Even Dr. Cho glanced up for a moment before returning to her charts.

Andrew twisted around to look. Dawn’s eye was still up close to the window - from this vantage point, he couldn’t see her lips, but judging by the attentive expressions on the others’ faces, he presumed she was saying something.

Andrew resisted the urge to pout. It wasn’t exactly Dawnie’s fault she had to communicate verbally; in her giantess form, she could hardly scribble down messages to pass through the window. But he hated this part - just sitting quietly until someone could translate for him. Impatiently, he kicked a leg.

Thankfully, this conversation didn’t seem to take long. Dawn finished speaking, and Xander nodded, then said one or two words in return.

Willow turned to Andrew. “ _Go_ ,” she signed. Then, she pointed out the window.

Andrew frowned for a moment. “We’re going outside?”

Willow nodded.

“ _Dawn can’t sign through the window_ ,” Buffy wrote on her whiteboard.

Andrew brightened. “Dawnie’s been learning sign language, too?”

Buffy smiled, and pointedly tucked her whiteboard under one arm. With her free hand, she signed: _“Yes._ ”

And if the corners of Andrew’s eyes prickled a little, that was totally manly. “Can I go, Dr. Cho?” he asked excitedly. “We’re done, right?”

Dr. Cho nodded.

Andrew bounced down from the exam table. With Xander, Willow, and Buffy on his heels, he darted out of the room and down the corridor of the enormous castle. On the first floor, he pushed open one of the wide, double doors of the main entrance.

Dawn was sitting cross-legged on the grass in front of the castle. When she saw Andrew and the others step out onto into the sunlight, she smiled.

“ _Hello_ ,” she waved.

Andrew ran across the drawbridge that lay over the moat and stood right in front of her. Then he sat down in the grass, imitating her posture exactly but on a much smaller scale. “ _Hello_ ,” he replied.

“ _How are you_?” Dawn signed.

It was a little weird to communicate from this vantage point; to see her face, Andrew had to crane his neck almost to the point of pain. But he was too excited to care.

“ _Good,_ ” he answered. He paused, and added: “ _Deaf_.”

Dawn lifted her eyebrows for a fraction of a second. “ _Yes_.” Then, she continued, with a series of slow gestures that looked a little awkward on her hands.

Andrew blinked. He recognized “ _teach_ ” and “ _sign_ ”, but Dawn was using just as many signs that he didn’t know.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” he said aloud. “I don’t know that much sign language yet!”

Dawn paused, looking sheepish.

The others had caught up to Andrew, and Dawn said something quickly to them. Xander paused, listening, then translated in his notebook: “ _Dawn was telling you one of our witches is teaching her sign language._ ”

“Oh. You learned really fast,” Andrew commented, looking up at her.

Dawn smiled, and shrugged nonchalantly.

“ _She didn’t like not being able to talk to you directly,”_ Xander wrote. “ _So she’s been working hard._ ”

“That’s really cool. I’ll catch up, I swear!” Andrew promised. To Xander, he said: “Who’s the witch teaching you guys?”

“ _Junior witch - Stella. Hard of hearing, fluent in ASL.”_

“Ooh, cool. Nita’s only mostly proficient. Which is still super cool, of course. ‘Cause she’s really patient with all of us, and she’s practicing ASL on the internet in her free time so she can get better. Which is really awesome of her.”

Willow took the notebook from Xander and wrote down her own message. “ _Why did you pick ASL, btw?”_ it read. _“We’re not in the U.S.”_

“Because that’s the most common one anyone knew in Italy Squad,” he replied promptly. “Which makes sense, since so much of Slayer Organization is American-heavy. You know, we should probably actually work on making more effective recruitment campaigns for the rest of the world. That television ad doesn’t work nearly as well anywhere else as it does in the States.”

Willow touched her pen to the paper. But Andrew wasn’t done.

“And actually, I’ve also been learning a little _Lingua dei Segni Italiana_ \- that’s the Italian one - because Rome, you know? And because you guys are in Scotland, Posey taught me the British sign language alphabet. Look, it’s my name!”

And enthusiastically, he spelled out his name in the two-handed alphabet of BSL.

Willow and Xander blinked at him. Buffy and Dawn looked deeply amused.

“ _Won’t that get confusing_?” Willow wrote.

“What, learning multiple languages?”

She nodded.

Andrew shrugged ambivalently. “I mean, I did learn like six demon languages at the same time. And I only get the Prio Motu and Hindu Kush languages mixed up, like, ten percent of the time. And those species are really similar anyway, so it’s totally not my fault.”

“ _You and Dawn are better at languages than the rest of us_ ,” Buffy wrote on her whiteboard.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Dawn signed smugly.

Buffy rolled her eyes, and made to erase the message on her whiteboard--

\--And that’s when she vanished in a cloud of orange smoke.  

For a moment, everyone was still. Xander, Dawn, Willow, Andrew - they all stared, open-mouthed, at the spot on the grass where Buffy had just been. The orange smoke dissipated in only a fraction of a second, leaving behind only the faint smell of copper and sulfur. The grass wasn’t even indented where she’d stood.

A heartbeat.

They burst into a flurry of action. Dawn slapped a giant hand against the earth where Buffy had been, as if trying to grab her and pull her out of the ground. Xander was barking into a walkie-talkie he’d snatched out of his pocket. Willow had grabbed a charm hanging around her neck and began to mutter something; the charm glowed in her palm.

“What just happened?” Andrew asked.  

Dawn and Xander both glanced at him, but no one reached for a pen.

“Guys?” Andrew pressed. “Willow? Xan? What’s going on?”

This time, Xander lowered the walkie-talkie long enough to shake his head. He waved one hand. “ _Later_ ,” he mouthed.

But Andrew was scared _now_. Buffy had just been snatched from right in front of them, and it made no sense. People were talking - incantations and orders, and Andrew had no idea what they were saying. What spell was Willow doing? Was Xander calling for security? Were they supposed to go to the command center, or stay put for an investigation team? Had there been a sound when Buffy vanished? Smoke was associated with Asphyx demon kidnappings, but the most telling characteristic of those was the high-pitched whine a moment before the victim disappeared. Did Willow and Xander and Dawn even know to listen for that?

“Xander, what’s going on?” Andrew begged, grabbing his sleeve.

Xander shook him off and held up a palm. _Wait_.

“ _Please!_ ” Andrew cried.

And the desperation in his voice must have worked, because everyone froze. Andrew’s eyes were prickling uncomfortably, and he rubbed at them, sniffling hard.

“Please tell me what’s going on,” he said, quieter.

Willow picked up Xander’s notebook, which had been dropped on the ground in the frenzy, and pulled out her pen. But instead of writing anything, she muttered a few words.

When she drew her hands away, the notebook and pen stayed there, hovering in the air, completely unsupported. Looking directly at Andrew now, Willow said something more. The pen began to write.

“ _Here,_ ” the pen scratched out. “ _Now it will transcribe everything we say_.”

Wonderingly, Andrew plucked the notebook out of the air. The pen moved with him. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“ _Sure_. _Anyways, none of us know what’s going on right now. We’re trying to figure that out_.”

There was a lag; Willow had finished speaking long before the pen stopped writing.

“Was there a sound?” Andrew asked, the moment the pen stilled. “When Buffy disappeared, I mean.”

“ _There was something like rushing air. Is that what you mean?”_

“Oh,” he replied. “Not an Asphyx, then.”

But Willow wasn’t listening to him. Nor was Xander. They were talking with one another in with fast lips and intense expressions. The pen was still writing, but it was lagging . . . five seconds, now ten seconds . . .

“ _Was that your magic, or maybe one of our witches?_ ”

“ _I don’t think so. I’m following her astral signature, and it’s leading out of Scotland entirely. Still in the UK, though, I think._ ”

“ _That’s good, right?_ ”

“ _Maybe.”_

Three Slayers and two witches had rushed out the front door, and Xander and Willow had turned to talk to them, but the pen was still scratching out the earlier conversation Xander and Willow had been having with each other. And Dawn looked like she was trying to say something to Andrew, but the lag was now a full minute long, and no one else was free to transcribe.

“ _Do you think you can track her and pull her back_?”

“ _Yeah, but I could use a little help stabilizing it. It’ll be a little more comfortable for Buffy that way.”_

_“How much help?”_

_“Two?”_

_“Got it. Command - send down two Wiccans with the security detail.”_

Willow had clasped hands with the other witches. Her hair was tossing in a wind that Andrew couldn’t feel, and there was an electric charge in the air. Willow closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, the irises were jet black. She shouted something, and glowing, green energy bubbled from her hands--

A static spike. A scent like ozone. And then there was a very burly and bewildered looking man standing in front of them.

The man babbled, and judging by the perplexed looks on everyone’s faces, it wasn’t just Andrew who couldn’t understand him. Looking chagrined, Willow waved a hand. The man vanished.

The next attempt called up a pair of marmosets, with wide, brown eyes and fluffy, white tufts on either side of their heads. As the pint sized monkeys scampered about on the grassy lawn, Andrew had half a mind to ask if they could keep them. But before he could open his mouth, Willow waved again, and the marmosets were gone.

One more time, Willow joined hands with the other witches, and the energy flared, high and bright.

Finally - _Buffy_.

She was dripping wet, there was murder written across her face, and she had hardly taken a single step forward when she bent over to hurl. But it was Buffy - alive, uninjured, and back.

There was a tangible shift in the air; Willow dropped the other witches’ hands, and Andrew could see her heave a breath of relief. Xander slumped. Dawn crouched low, as if to check that this tiny figure in front of her was really Buffy.

Willow stepped forward and spoke quickly. Buffy straightened and replied, her expression set in a thunderous scowl.

Andrew glanced down at the notebook in his hands. But the pen was still busy recording the babbling of the burly man they’d summoned first: “ _Hvor er jeg? Hvem er du?_ ”

Frustrated, Andrew threw the notebook to the ground. The pen kept writing.

“ _Hva skjedde? Vær så snill!_ ”

\------

Buffy was _pissed off_.

Her soaked clothes clung uncomfortably to her skin, and drops of water trickled out of her limp hair to roll down the back of her neck. Her throat was sore; her lungs were burning. She could still feel the phantom grip of Faith’s hands pressing down on her windpipe, could taste the chlorine of the pool water bitter on her lips.

Her stomach heaved, and she almost upchucked again.

“ _Buffy!_ ” Dawn’s shrill cry was, to some extent, a welcome sound of home, but it grated on Buffy’s already strained nerves. She winced.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Willow breathed, rushing forward. “I’ve been trying to get a lock on your astral signature, but I accidentally teleported a Norwegian truck driver and two marmosets before I finally found you.”

As Buffy fought past her rolling nausea to straighten properly, Willow rested a hand on her shoulder. “That was some scary bad voodoo that grabbed you, Buffy. What happened - who did this?”

Lady Genevieve. Faith. _Giles_. Buffy was almost too angry to speak. Four weeks since he’d last called Buffy. Ten days since _anyone_ in Slayer Organization had heard from him. And now, he was back - involved somehow with this most recent attempt on Buffy’s life.

“Giles,” Buffy hissed. “Get me Giles.”

“Giles?” Xander echoed. “We can try, but he hasn’t been picking up his phone or returning calls. Andrew’s the last one who’s heard anything from him, and that was after Indira--”

“He’s behind this!” Buffy interrupted. “It was _Faith!_ Working with that psychopath who almost killed Andrew’s Slayer in the first place! And she wasn’t the first - this lunatic blueblood has been hunting Slayers, and now Faith’s at her side. It was Giles who sent who sent her there! They tried to murder me!”

Dawn looked pale. “Murder you? Buffy - what? Sure, Giles has been acting weird lately, but he can’t have . . .”

“Start from the beginning,” Willow said. “What happened?”

Buffy sucked in a breath - but before she could get out any words, something knocked hard into her side. She just barely stopped herself from flipping the assailant when she saw the head of spiked blond hair.

“A-Andrew?”

Andrew had plastered himself to her side; he’d thrown his arms around her waist and was clinging to her like an affectionate monkey.

“Are you okay?” he said breathlessly. “What happened? What’s going on? Are we in danger? Are you okay?”

“Uh,” Buffy said. Somewhere in the successive teleportations, her whiteboard had gone missing. And either way, the manner in which Andrew was clinging to her kind of prevented the use of her arms.

Willow tried to prise Andrew away. “What did he do with his notebook?” she muttered. “Oh, there it is - Xander, can you grab it?”

Xander picked up a notebook lying on the ground - there was a pen scribbling across the paper, apparently of its own volition. He tried to push the notebook into Andrew’s hands. But Andrew just shook his head.

“Too slow,” he whined.

Willow glanced down at the notebook.The pen had only just copied out Dawn’s earlier exclamation of “ _Buffy!”_

“Oh. It’s really behind. No wonder he’s impatient.”

Xander turned to the security team. “Are any of you really fast at typing on your phones?”

“Um. I’m not bad,” ventured one of the girls.

“Type for Andrew, will you?”

She nodded. When she held out her phone, Andrew finally released Buffy’s torso and went over to his newly assigned translator.

“So, let’s start again,” Willow said. “What _happened_?”

This time when Buffy spoke, her words were slow and deliberate, but there was an undercurrent of danger that sent shivers down the arms of anyone could hear it. “The psycho who took Andrew’s Slayer last week has a wizard working for her. He’s the one who summoned me there. And then Miss Socialite tried to stick me six feet under - and who do I _not_ expect to be there, but Faith. She was nice enough to tell me she was working for Giles, though, just before she tried to drown me. So, please. Get me Giles.”

There was a moment of hushed horror when she’d finished.

“You okay?” Xander asked softly.

“Fine,” Buffy snapped. “Get me Giles.”

Willow pushed her phone into Buffy’s hand, where Giles’ number displayed on the screen. “He’s not likely to pick up,” she warned.

“Then I’ll leave a strongly-worded voicemail.”

As it happened, however, Giles _did_ pick up. The phone rang just twice, and then - “Thank heaven you called.”

Buffy’s grip tightened, and she had to mind that she didn’t break Willow’s phone.

“I’d hoped to protect you from all this,” he was saying, in an infuriatingly pleasant tone. “But I may need your assistance remotely deactivating a mystical--”

“Shut up, Giles.”

She could almost _hear_ the stunned expression slap itself across his face. “. . . Buffy?”

“ _Her_. You’re working with her and you didn’t even tell me?”

And if she’d had any hope that this was all some great misunderstanding, that for some reason Faith had lied, and Giles really _wasn’t_ working behind her back - it all came crashing down when he simply sighed softly and said: “I . . . I can explain later. Please. Lives are at stake.”

And wasn’t that rich. “Yeah - like mine!” Buffy snapped.

“ _What_?”

“Your femme Nikita just tried to stuff me down a pool drain. Faith and her new droogs teleported me into the middle of a British invasion, but Will conjured up my ticket home!”

“And you left Faith behind? Buffy, you have to put Willow on the line.”

Buffy’s throat was burning, and it wasn’t just because of the bruises Faith had left around her neck. “Not until you tell me exactly what the hell is going on!” Maybe Giles didn’t even care that Faith had just tried to kill her, but he at least owed her that.

“. . . No. I don’t want you to have any part in this.”

Buffy felt as if she’d been smacked. Her hand went slack, and the phone dropped below her ear. For a moment, she said nothing, and felt nothing. She was numb.

“Buffy?”

It was Dawn, staring down at her from twenty feet above the ground. In a sitting position. Buffy’s little sister - still a giantess. Still reduced to curling up on the lawn or in a barn, out of college, out of work. Buffy didn’t know what to do for her, hadn’t for some time. And _where_ had Giles been in all of this? Playing spy with Faith, apparently.

The thought was enough to make anger flare hot again in her belly.

She pulled the phone back up to her ear and snapped: “Don’t want _me_ to have any part of this? What about what part you have with _us_? In case you didn’t notice, we’re already involved! They. Tried. To. _Kill me!_ And that psycho Slayer already got to Andrew and she’s the reason he’s deaf!”

“. . . What? Andrew’s deaf?”

Buffy couldn’t help it. She snorted. “See, that’s my point! You don’t want us involved with whatever you’re up to, but you’re not involved with us! You don’t know your own protege gave up his hearing in a demon deal to protect his Slayer from the very girl your new secret agent is getting chummy with! I thought a Watcher was supposed to, you know, _watch things_!”

And with that, she wrenched the phone away from her ear and pushed it back to Willow. “Talk to him. I don’t know.”  

She spun away.

\------

The sun was sinking in distance, casting shadows over the isolated butte. Streaks of stars were already glittering overhead - oddly bright, as the sun wasn’t yet set.

A helicopter touched down on the summit of the butte, and a primly dressed figure stepped out. There was already a second figure to greet her - dark, and masked. He hovered above the ground, power pulsing in the air.

The first figure held up a hand. Line, curve, diamond: the red sign etched on her hand matched the embossing on the darker one’s chest.

The spoke in hushed, deliberate tones. She was frustrated, but the other was calm.

“Let her have the day, Lieutenant,” he said. “The night falls soon enough.”

And a wind picked up - a cold, strong wind, heavy with unsettled energy. It was like the wind that blew through before a storm, but the clouds overhead were thin and sparsely spaced. It rushed through the hem of the dark figure’s cloak, and the curls of Lieutenant’s hair.

And then it was gone, and the air was still. 


	5. Chapter 5

Returning to heaven felt like breaking  through the surface of the ocean. Earth had pressed in around Jonathan like water - heavy, engulfing . . . comforting. Everything had seemed to move a little sluggishly, sounded just a little bit distant. It was peaceful. It had made focusing on his singular mission that much easier. No distractions, no excitement. Just the one job: watch Andrew.

Then there had been a yank around his navel that reached through his entire being, and he was being dragged back to heaven, and it didn't feel right, as if he were being forced into skin two sizes too small.

"I wasn't done!" he gasped. "Send me back - I need to go back!"

"Hold him, Jenny. He'll come down in a moment."

It was Dennis, speaking in soothing tones. But Dennis didn't understand; Jonathan wasn't supposed to be here.

"No! I'm meant to be down there! Andrew--"

Dennis crouched down in front of Jonathan and gently helped him straighten up. His hands felt too present on Jonathan's shoulders - Jonathan flinched.

"It's alright, Jonathan," Dennis said kindly. "You've done your job."

"I need to watch Andrew! I need--"

"Jonathan, remember what I said about losing yourself down there? Watching Andrew was your mission, but you're done now. Take a deep breath. Give the rest of yourself time to come back to you."

The too-tight feeling was fading, and Jonathan's gasps were growing calmer.

"But . . ."

"Relax, Jonathan.” It was Ms. Calendar who spoke this time,  "You went down to Earth to watch Andrew and report back about what you saw _._ You can’t exactly report from Earth, can you?"

"Right . . ."

She was making sense. Watch Andrew - report back. Report . . .

And that was when what he'd seen came tumbling back to him.

" _Andrew's deaf_!"

Dennis blinked, obviously startled by the sharpness of Jonathan's tone. Behind him, Ms. Calendar sucked in a small gasp.

“What?”

“I saw him with his doctor - she says it’s permanent. And he’s learning sign language now, and so are Buffy and her friends. He’s _deaf_!”

Andrew - deaf. He couldn’t hear alarms or orders or warnings. That meant he was vulnerable. And instead of being on Earth, Jonathan was up _here_.

Dennis must have read the anxiety in his eyes, because he said: “Are you feeling like you need to go back there to look after him now?”

“I--”

“Your friend losing his hearing is startling and that’s messing with your link to Earth right now,” he continued calmly. “But even if you were on Earth, that wouldn’t fix things for him. He’ll be okay. You need to be in heaven right now.”

Jonathan heaved in a breath, trying to focus on what Dennis was telling him. “I’m supposed to report back,” he stated.

“That’s right. Hang on a moment - I’m going to call Cordy back. Then we can hear the full story of what both of you saw.”

Mutely, Jonathan nodded.

Dennis moved a few paces away, and closed his eyes. In front of him, a figure began to shimmer into view.

They had chosen to travel Earthwards from Jonathan’s heaven, as the isolation of the picturesque forest offered fewer distractions for the ‘anchors’. Now, Jonathan sat heavily back down on the ground and pressed his fingers into the soft soil of his familiar paradise. After a moment, Ms. Calendar sat next to him.

“Andrew Wells is deaf?” she said gently.

“Yeah.”

She paused. Then: “I taught him.”

Jonathan glanced up sharply. When he’d told her the story of his mistakes - with sparse detail, but it’d been enough to get the ideas across - she hadn’t mentioned anything. It made sense that Andrew would have been in her class, he supposed. But he hadn’t known Andrew all that well in high school, so the thought had never crossed his mind.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He wasn’t apologizing about Andrew’s deafness.

Ms. Calendar gave him a wry smile - almost sad. “I know.”

“Did you teach Warren, too?”

“No,” she replied. “I didn’t know him.”  

“Oh. That’s probably good.”

Before either of them could say anything further, there was a flash of light, and Cordelia’s fuzzy figure came sharply into focus.

She looked thunderous. Her shoulders were drawn up high, and her lips were set in a pale, thin line. Jonathan wasn’t sure if her higher power status was amplifying the waves of danger rolling off of her, or if that was just sheer _Cordelia,_ but one look at her and he almost fled.

He gulped.

“Cordelia?” Dennis said uneasily. “Are you--”

“What does he think he’s _doing_?!” Cordelia exploded. “I could barely find him, and when I finally get a lock on him, he’s a walking fashion disaster with a power complex! That wasn’t the Angel I - the Angel . . . what _happened_ to him?!”

The others stared at her, stunned.

Cordelia’s gaze swung around - first to Dennis, then Jonathan, then Ms. Calendar. “Well?!” she demanded.

To Jonathan’s shock, he realized that her eyes were glistening.

“What did you see?” Ms. Calendar asked, recovering first. “Try to start from the beginning.”  

“I almost couldn’t find him,” Cordelia said. “I was tracking him by his soul, and it was very faint - I thought at first maybe he’d become Angelus again.”

Ms. Calendar went oddly stiff then, but Cordelia didn’t seem to notice. She continued:

“But I found it. I don’t know what is _up_ with that soul, though, and then I got there, and he’s not acting like Angel at all! He’s flying around like freaking Superman, but with the world’s worst Halloween mask - _and_ he was talking with military goons who kept calling him ‘Twilight’, and speaking in chess metaphors that were way melodramatic, even for him. And I’m pretty sure he was talking about _killing Buffy_!”

She finished, breathing hard. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. Dennis stepped closer to her and put an arm around her shoulders. Cordelia didn’t shake him off, but she didn’t relax, either.

“That sounds very much like Angelus,” Ms. Calendar said, her voice tense. “Are you certain--?”

But Cordelia shook her head. “The soul was definitely there. Weak, but there. I also thought maybe it was like some weird temporary influence, like that time Angel got drugged - but he’s not talking like Angelus. He’s talking about killing Buffy, yes, but he’s not - he’s not . . .” Her voice dropped as she spat out the last two words: “ _having fun_.”

“W-what do you think is going on with him then?” Jonathan asked.

Through several discussions with Cordelia since they’d both come to heaven, he’d learned quite a bit more about Angel, other than ‘that guy Buffy went to prom with’. Angelus, though - it’d been Doyle who explained that.

“ _It’s not something that she likes to talk about,_ ” he’d told Jonathan. “ _But it’s a pretty important thing to understand about the bloke, even if you’re not about to run into him any time soon. She agrees.”_

Now, Cordelia let out a harsh breath and ran a hand through her hair. “I don’t even _know_. Did you see anything when you were down on Earth?”

Jonathan shook his head. “Not about Angel. But, uh - Andrew’s deaf.”

That caught Cordelia’s attention. The furious scowl on her face flitted into a wide-eyed expression of surprise, just for a moment. “Deaf?” she echoed. “How’d that happen?”

“Buffy said it was because he made a demon deal to protect his Slayer from Lady Genevieve,” Jonathan said. “The - the same girl we couldn’t convince the Powers to save. So I guess he found his own way to protect her.”

Cordelia looked impressed. “This is really the same kid you said cried for an hour when he stubbed his toe, huh?”

“Well - that was three years ago.”

“So he’s not a baby anymore,” she said approvingly. “Good for him.”

But Jonathan frowned. “I guess. But he wouldn’t be deaf if the Powers had helped - if we’d convinced them to step in.”

“And I said I’d give them an earful next time I run into them, didn’t I? Look at it this way: Andrew made a sacrifice for someone he cared about, and everyone’s alive. Win-win. He’ll adapt. But we have bigger fish to fry right now - like why Angel sounds like a comic book character bent on world domination.”

And maybe that was true, but Jonathan couldn’t shake the look of fear Andrew had on his face when Buffy had disappeared and no one had stopped to explain what was happening.

His fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt. When Cordelia had said Angel’s name, the worry spiked in both Dennis and Ms. Calendar’s expressions.

“Right,” he said finally. “So. Uh. What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Cordelia replied. “I just don’t even know what’s going on. Angel’s obviously not himself - what’s his plan? How do I get through to him?” She sighed, and drew a hand across the side of her face. “He didn’t even recognize me in the wind.”

Jonathan frowned. But before he could ask, Dennis spoke:

“Do you want to go back down?”

“To Earth? Maybe. But I don’t know what I’m even seeing down there. It’s not like the visions, where I get flashes of understanding or anything like that. I have no context.” Cordelia huffed. “I need my team back.”

“Your team - you mean Angel Investigations?” Jonathan asked.

“Yeah. I guess Doyle’s up here, but he was never quite the star of research like Fred and Wesley were. Fred’s kind of nowhere right now, and thanks to Angel Investigations sticking their noses into Wolfram and Hart, Wesley’s stuck working for them in hell for the rest of eternity, and I kind of can’t get to him down there.”

That made Jonathan pause. He hadn’t realized Cordelia knew anyone in hell. She’d mentioned Wesley before, certainly, but she hadn’t talked about where he was. Jonathan couldn’t reconcile the awkward, bookish man Cordelia spoke about - and Jonathan himself had seen hanging around the school his senior year - with _hell_. It made something in the pit of his stomach go cold.

Why Wesley? Why not _him_?

“We can probably talk to some people up here,” Dennis was saying.

“Yeah, true,” Cordelia replied. “But Wesley probably knows the most about Angel-lore and related prophecies. Even if he hasn’t always made the smartest decisions by it. _And_ he has that unlimited research thing going for him.”

Ms. Calendar lifted her eyebrows and said, sounding amused: “You know, if you need to get into hell, there _is_ a way.”

Cordelia and Dennis both swung their heads to look at her.

“What?” Cordelia said sharply.

“Well, not for you,” Ms. Calendar amended. “Hell isn’t exactly warm about letting in powers for good. But I can open a portal, at least.”

“You can open the portal to hell?” Dennis said, intrigued.

Ms. Calendar nodded. “And I can make sure only people we want can use it. It’s not too hard to learn to make a portal, but most people don’t bother. I mean, who wants hell when you have heaven? I’ll have to stay here, to keep the portal open, but you can send a liaison. Anyone who’s _not_ a higher power.”

Meaningfully, she tilted her head toward Dennis, who visibly brightened at the prospect of helping Cordelia.

But then Jonathan said, quite abruptly: “I’ll do it.”

“Uh, _you_?” Cordelia replied, lifting her eyebrows in surprise.

“I want to do it! I mean, you keep saying I have to get out of my corner of heaven, right?”

“Yeah - your _corner_ of heaven. I didn’t mean you to had to go to hell.”

Jonathan shrugged. He couldn’t explain it exactly, but . . . he had to know. Had to know where he could have ended up - had to see the eternal damnation he’d somehow escaped. Out loud, he only said: “I want to.”

But Ms. Calendar looked uneasy. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Going to hell isn’t a fun experience, and you’ve only just started travelling out of heaven at all. I think it’s a better idea if the one who’s spent more time out of heaven makes the trip.”

“But--!”

“Besides, Dennis has met Wesley before,” Cordelia pointed out.

“Well, why don’t we go together?” Dennis suggested. “I know that you’re right about visiting hell not being easy, and I actually haven’t done it before. I think I’d like the backup.”

“Yes,” Jonathan said immediately.

“I only suggested it as a possibility. I only want people going down there if they know what they’re getting themselves into,” Ms. Calendar said firmly. “That includes you, Dennis.”

“I know what I’m getting into,” Dennis assured her. “I haven’t done the trip myself before, but I’ve talked to a lot of people about interdimensional travel since I’ve been up here - although I haven’t met anyone else who could open the portal before.”

“And Jonathan?”

Jonathan hesitated. He _did_ want to see hell, but Ms. Calendar was right: he had no idea what that entailed. Apprehensively, he chewed his lower lip. “Um. Not yet. You can tell me about it, though?”

Ms. Calendar glanced at Dennis. “Dennis? You said you know.”

“Well, you don’t fade like you do on Earth. It’s still an afterlife, so we’re meant to be there - in a manner of speaking. But it’s not comfortable. You want to get out every moment you’re down there. And, um, don’t ever listen to anyone who tries to convince you to stay.”

“Don’t be Persephone, the twenty-first century edition,” Cordelia put in.

“That’s the general idea,” Ms. Calendar said. “Hell’s not _dangerous_ as long as you ignore anyone who tries to get you to agree to stay in hell. Some of the things down there have plenty of _uses_ for a heaven soul - but you’d have to agree to relinquish your ties to heaven first.”

The seriousness in their tones made Jonathan tense. But he’d already made up his mind. He couldn’t hide up here in heaven and pretend he deserved paradise, not without so much as looking down at the road that, for all intents and purposes, he should have been on.

“Alright. I’ll go with Dennis,” he declared.

Dennis smiled. “It’ll be good to have you along.”

“You two watch each other’s backs,” Ms. Calendar said firmly.

“We will,” Dennis replied.

“Good. Then just give me a moment to get the portal open wide enough.”

As Ms. Calendar strode away to an open stretch of forest, Jonathan turned to Cordelia. “Um,” he said. “If you don’t mind me asking - uh, how did Wesley end up in hell?”

Cordelia glanced at him. Reading the tense expression on his face, she quickly shook her head. “It’s not like _that_ ,” she told him. “He signed a contract.”

“You mean, like Andrew and his deafness?”

“Something like that. Angel took over Wolfram and Hart - that evil law firm, remember? More evil than most, I mean. Anyway, when they started working for Wolfram and Hart, the team signed employment contracts with the senior partners that meant they keep working for the firm, even after death. And Wolfram and Hart doesn’t exactly have a heaven branch.”

“He knew what he was signing up for?”

“The whole team did,” Cordelia replied.

“They chose hell? Why?”

“Well, for Wesley, they offered him unlimited research abilities. Books could become any book he needed, and all that jazz. That’s part of why we want to talk to him so much.”

Jonathan was quiet for a moment. The thought that someone could end up in an eternity of hell out of such a simple deal sat uneasily with him. Unlimited research - wasn’t that a neutral act? How could the universe be aligned to punish Wesley, yet allow _Jonathan_ into heaven?

The need to see hell sharpened into something almost physical.

When Ms. Calendar, somewhat breathless, called out: “Alright, that should be good”, Jonathan swallowed.

Ms. Calendar was standing in front of a large, egg-shaped tear in the fabric of Jonathan’s heaven. The portal itself was near pitch-black, save for the edges, which sparked with blue and purple energy. And although the nearby leaves of Jonathan’s forest were completely still, he nevertheless had an odd sense of powerful suction as he stared into the blackness.

Jonathan stepped up to the portal, feeling apprehension roll in his gut. Dennis stood next to him and gave Jonathan a reassuring smile.

“I opened the portal into the lobby of Wolfram and Hart’s hell branch,” Ms. Calendar said. “So you just have to figure out where in there Wesley is.”

“When you find him, ask him if Twilight means anything to him,” Cordelia put in. “And show him this symbol.” With one hand, she drew the sign in the air; golden lines followed her finger at her will. She drew a line with a semicircle cutting through, and a diamond off to one side. “The lieutenant said it was Twilight’s sign. And it was on Angel’s chest.”

“Understood,” Dennis said.

“Alright, get going. The sooner we know what’s going on with this Twilight thing, the sooner we can, well, do anything.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Dennis promised. Then, smiling, he added: “Are you going to wish us luck?”

Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Go to hell already. Both of you.”

Jonathan was startled by his inclusion in the friendly jibe. But he barely had time to blink before Dennis was stepping up and gesturing Jonathan forward.

“Ready?” Dennis asked.

Not exactly - but he had to be. He had to know _why_ he was in heaven. So, Jonathan just nodded.

And then, together, they stepped into the black pit of the portal.

\------

The trip to hell was distinctly different from the journey to Earth. When Jonathan had gone down to Earth, it’d felt like being pressed in on from all sides, as if the atmosphere had suddenly upped in air pressure. It wasn’t uncomfortable; just odd. But going to hell - that was like falling. His stomach dropped away, and for a moment, Jonathan thought he had somehow tripped, that something had gone wrong.

But Dennis was next to him, and although he gave a little gasp at the falling sensation, he looked as if he’d expected it. Purple and blue flashed by them as they fell, and now the lights were shifting through the rainbow. Blue became green which became yellow which became orange, all flickering by like sparks.

Just as the glow turned to red, Jonathan and Dennis were shot out the other end of the portal. Thankfully, they weren’t travelling as if they’d truly fallen miles out of heaven; they were shoved out sideways as if pushed by a pair of strong hands. Dennis landed on his feet. Jonathan did not.

As Jonathan scowled and rubbed at his sore rump, he stared up at his first-ever view of hell.

It wasn’t exactly what he’d expected.

There weren’t walls of fire, or ringing wails of suffering souls. There was no smell of brimstone, no smothering heat. In fact, they were standing (or, in Jonathan’s case, sitting) in a clean and well-lit lobby of a professional looking building. Granted, the view outside the windows was dark, but that seemed no more sinister than visiting an office in the evening. Even the demons and vampires and malevolent souls who filled the lobby seemed quite content to stand peaceably in line for the information desk.

Jonathan glanced back at the portal. It was still there, rimmed with red on this end, and it seemed both invisible and intangible to the other occupants of the lobby. As he watched, a demon walked right through the gaping blackness without flinching, and emerged, un-teleported, on the other side.

Then the sensation of crawling bugs suddenly washed over his entire skin.

Every hair on his scalp stood on end. Jonathan grabbed at one leg and stared wildly at his left arm. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. But it was one of the most uncomfortable sensations he’d ever felt in his life - or death. It wasn’t like his leg had fallen asleep. There was crawling on every inch of his skin, and no matter how much he stared at his bare palms, he couldn’t shake the thought of _bugs_. Thousands of bugs, from ants to cockroaches to millipedes, all completely invisible.

On Jonathan’s right, Dennis visibly shuddered.

“You feel it, too?” Dennis muttered.

“The bugs?”

“Yeah. I mentioned hell would be uncomfortable, right?”

“This is just because we’re in hell, then?”

“Exactly. We’re not supposed to feel good in hell.”

“I would have expected something more like pain,” Jonathan commented. He curled his hands into fists, willing the ghostly crawling to go away, but no luck. He shivered as something that wasn’t there slithered down the back of his neck.

“It changes. I don’t know if that’s because you’re not supposed to be able to get used to one kind of discomfort, or if it’s because whatever’s in control of the hell feeling gets bored.”

“Right,” Jonathan said. “That makes sense, I guess.” He frowned down at his hands. If he’d ended up in hell, is this how he’d feel for eternity? With bugs crawling all over his skin - or worse, depending on the day?

“Come on, let’s get moving,” Dennis said. “The sooner we talk to Wesley, the sooner we can get out of here.”

“How do you think we should find him?”

Dennis nodded toward the line of demons on the other side of the lobby. “The information desk seems like a good start.”

“You think they’ll help us?” Jonathan said dubiously. “I thought this was an _evil_ law firm.”

“Yeah,” Dennis said, holding out a hand to help Jonathan to his feet. “But we’re _clients_. In a manner of speaking.”

“Oh. Right.”

Jonathan followed Dennis over to the line. The queue moved surprisingly fast for what Jonathan might have expected of hell. When they reached the front, just five minutes later, Dennis stepped up to the tentacled-faced creature manning the phone and said politely: “Excuse me - we’re looking for Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. Where might we find him?”

The creature did not reply aloud. One tentacle disappeared under the desk, and reemerged a moment later with a plan of the third floor. At one corner of the map, a room was glowing violet.

“Thank you,” Dennis said pleasantly.

The creature watched them go, which was distinctly strange, as it - they? - did not have any eyes. Jonathan glanced uneasily over his shoulder.

At the elevator, a smartly dressed purple-skinned demon held the door open for them. Dennis nodded in thanks as he pressed the button for the third floor. The doors slid shut, and the elevator started upwards. When the doors opened again, Jonathan and Dennis stepped out onto a floor looked almost as mundane as the lobby, save for the too-high walls that were filled as far as Jonathan could see with row after row of books.

“This says that Wesley’s office is this way,” Dennis said, eyeing the map. “Come on.”

He led the way down the rows of books, past a few scowling vampires, to a door two offices from the very end of the hall. A plaque on the wall read: “ _Wesley Wyndam-Pryce: Research_ ”.

Dennis knocked.

From within the office came a prim voice: “Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” Dennis replied. “But we have a message from Cordelia Chase.”

There was an insensible exclamation, and the sound of scrambling. Then the door cracked open, and Wesley stood there, looking thunderstruck.

Wesley looked older than Jonathan remembered him from high school. Of course, he hadn’t ever interacted all that much with Mr. Wyndam-Pryce, but Jonathan remembered the Mr. Giles’ colleague as looking almost college age - not lined and weary.

“Cordelia?” Wesley echoed weakly. “How?”

“As an agent for the Powers That Be, she can’t come down herself, so she sent us,” Dennis said. “I’m Dennis - this is Jonathan.”

“Dennis? Really? I didn’t recognize you! I’m sorry - I just haven’t seen you with a face before.”

Dennis smiled, and gave a nonchalant shrug. “It’s understandable.”

“Come in; come in!” Wesley stepped back and held the door open.

Dennis and Jonathan entered an office that looked quite similar to the one that Cordelia worked in, up in heaven. It was admittedly more understated than Cordelia’s elegant design, but not nearly as departed from the heaven counterpart as Jonathan might have expected. There was a computer and a phone, both looking quite modern, on a dark, maple-wood desk, and all across one wall were rows of the same too-tall bookshelves that lined the hallway outside.

“You said your name was Jonathan?” Wesley said, as he closed the door behind them. “I’m sorry; I don’t believe I know you.”

“I was a classmate of Cordelia’s,” Jonathan told him. “In high school. But we talk more in heaven now than we did back then.”

“Ah. I’m sorry,” Wesley said. “I mean, about you being in heaven. You’re . . . quite young.”

“Right. Um, thanks. Same to you, being here and all.” _And you’re in hell_ , Jonathan didn’t say. _At least I’m in heaven._

Wesley accepted Jonathan’s words with a nod. “So, what is the message from Cordelia?” he asked, turning to Dennis.

As Dennis explained, Jonathan peered around the office, looking for some overt sign of hellishness. But other than the persistent crawling of his skin, he could have been in any office down on Earth - or even in heaven, for that matter. Jonathan wasn’t sure what to make of that.

Hell was supposed to be punishment, wasn’t it? Where was the suffering; where was the pain? Besides the feeling of bugs skittering all over his body, what exactly had Jonathan been spared when he ended up in heaven?

“Twilight?” Wesley said, frowning, once Dennis had finished. His expression had turned dark.

“It means something to you?” Dennis asked.

“It’s an old Watchers’ legend.”

Wesley walked over to the desk and sat down heavily. He steepled his fingers together on the desk, looking troubled. For a moment, he said nothing, as if struggling to put words to his thoughts.

“It’s a prophecy,” he said finally. “About the end of our realm. According to the legend, a Slayer who defies all convention will bring about the birth of a new realm, called Twilight.”

“But Cordelia said that people were calling _Angel_ ‘Twilight’,” Jonathan pointed out. “Not a dimension. Can’t be the same one, right?”

“Realm, not dimension,” Wesley corrected. “There are many dimensions to our realm. This is on an entirely differently level.”

“Alright, realm. But still - if we’re talking about a person, it can’t be the same.”

“The Angel you describe doesn’t sound like the Angel I knew at all. That makes me believe there are other forces at play here. And Buffy’s reign as Slayer has been entirely unprecedented - there is no doubt that the ‘Slayer that defies all convention’ criterion of the Twilight prophecy has been wholly fulfilled.”

“You think they’re related, then?” Dennis asked.

“It has been a while since I reviewed the prophecy of Twilight,” Wesley confessed. “It’s thought to be a myth nowadays, and I had much better things to do with my time than read about rumors. But if I remember correctly, there was certainly a component that said that Twilight would be with us before Twilight existed.”

Jonathan blinked. “Um. What?”

“I can’t recall the exact context. Hang on.”

Wesley stood up from his desk and stepped over to the bookshelves lining the wall. Seemingly at random, he slid a volume off its shelf.

“Here we go.” He set the book back on the desk and flipped it open. Even as Jonathan watched, the words on the page wiped themselves blank, and then the paper began to fill again, in spindly writing of a completely different sort. It didn’t even look to still be English. Or in letters at all.

“Sumerian cuneiform,” Wesley said, responding to Jonathan’s frown. “I prefer to read the prophecy in the oldest form we have - closer to the original, I believe.”

“What does it say?”

Wesley ‘hmm’d as he skimmed through the text, his finger following the lines on the page. “Prophecies have never been the most straightforward. But it sounds as if before Twilight is a realm of its own, it will exist among us as an entity whose sole purpose is to bring forth the birth of itself as a realm.”

Dennis made a face. “What is _with_ all this giving birth to yourself idea, anyway?” he muttered, so quietly that Jonathan almost didn’t hear him.

Wesley was still reading. “If this entity has somehow found a way to control Angel, it may explain his odd behavior.”

“You really think it’s the same?” Jonathan asked.

“I can’t say exactly. But Twilight is a weighted word. Angel must know - he’s been around for a while.”

“Wait,” Dennis said suddenly. “Cordelia said there was a symbol on Angel’s chest. She said it was the sign of Twilight or something like that. Do you have something I can write on?”

Wesley handed him a memo pad and a pen. Quickly, Dennis scribbled down the line, curve, and diamond that Cordelia had drawn in the air earlier. He passed it back to Wesley.

“Does that look familiar?”

Wesley’s frown darkened. He turned the page of his book; there, on the very next page was an exact copy of the sign Dennis had scratched down. He placed Dennis’ drawing side-by-side with the one in the book, then looked back up, his face drawn.

“They’re certainly related.”

“But you said this prophecy is about the end of our realm,” Jonathan said nervously. “Does that mean Earth is going to be destroyed?”

“And heaven, and hell. And the countless other dimensions that are part of our realm.”

“And if the Powers That Be are hiding this from Cordelia,” Dennis put in quietly. “That means they _want_ this to happen.”

An uneasy silence fell over the office. Jonathan stared, wide-eyed, at Dennis. Wesley frowned back down at his book.

“W-why would Angel and the Powers want that?” Jonathan stammered finally.

“I don’t believe Angel is in his right mind,” Wesley replied. “And powerful beings often have their own agenda, don’t they? Of course, we still don’t know that this is the prophecy coming true.”

“But you said--”

“I said it’s related. But whether this is the _actual_ prophecy or just someone using the name - I don’t know. If you wanted to use a fear tactic, calling yourself ‘Twilight’ would certainly be an effective method. The last time it seemed the prophecy might be coming true, thirty Watchers committed suicide, simply out of terror.”

“Is there any way to know which it is?” Dennis asked.

“More data,” Wesley replied. “We need to see more of what’s going on down on Earth. Watching Buffy may give us an idea if this ‘Twilight’ truly encompasses the full prophecy. And if this is really the legendary prophecy, we must put a stop to it.”

“Is that possible?” Jonathan said dubiously. “If the _Powers_ want it . . .”

Wesley glanced at him, and adjusted the glasses perched on his nose. There was an odd defiance in the movement. “Initially, I might not have thought it possible, no. But you say that the Powers That Be have been hiding this from Cordelia?”

“They were giving Cordelia false visions,” Dennis told him. “And they blocked Jonathan’s scrying entirely when he used it to give Cordelia information about what was happening on Earth, even before he saw anything to do with Angel.”

“Then if this is what they were hiding, they’re worried that Cordelia might interfere. That means that this may be stoppable.”  

May. Might. So many _possibles_ , and this prophecy was saying that the entire universe - earth, heaven, hell - was going to end. Everything. It was too monumental; he felt like he was in the plot of a B-rated apocalypse film. Jonathan couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

“Is this visit a one-time thing?” Wesley was asking. “Will you be able to return?”

Dennis inclined his head. “I think we can come back easily enough. Jenny Calendar opened a portal for us, and she says it’s not difficult to do.”

“Jenny Calendar?” Wesley echoed. “The name sounds familiar.”

“Um, she was a teacher at my school,” Jonathan offered. “Computer science. Before you got there, I mean, but maybe Cordelia mentioned her?”

“Computer science?” A shadow of understanding crossed Wesley’s face, but he did not elaborate.

After a moment, he turned back to Dennis.

“Then come back in a little while. I’ll do some research down here, and if you guys can get more information about what’s happening on Earth, we can get a better idea of what’s going on with Angel and how to address the situation.”

“Alright. Is there anything else I should pass on to Cordelia, other than what you’ve already said?”

“Tell her--” Wesley paused, considering. “Tell her it was nice to hear from her.”

“I will,” Dennis replied.

Wesley stood from his desk and walked them over to the door. “I’ll get to work on this immediately,” he said, as he opened the door. “If there’s a solution, we will find it.”

Dennis nodded, and stepped out of the office. But in the doorway, Jonathan paused, and suddenly glanced back.

“Is hell not that bad then?” he burst out.

Wesley blinked. “What?”

“I - um.” Jonathan knew he was holding Dennis up, but he _had_ to know. “I thought hell was eternal suffering. But you’re helping us avert this Twilight thing; you don’t want non-existence. So is there not much suffering? Do you just have to get used to the feel of bugs?”

“Oh, is today bugs?” Wesley said, glancing at Dennis.

Dennis nodded, making a face and rubbing uncomfortably at his neck.

“Actually, I don’t feel the day-to-day hell sensation either,” Wesley told Jonathan. “Wolfram and Hart protects its employees from that, since otherwise our work quality surfers.”

“But this is hell!”

“Ah. Heaven and hell isn’t as simply divided as pleasure and suffering. I’m not in my personal hell - I just work here. For me, hell is only the absence of heaven. And what _heaven_ is varies as well. For some, it is the sense of complete peace after a long life. For others, it’s simply hedonism. And there are even some for whom heaven brings no pleasure, but merely the chance at righting past wrongs.”

Jonathan froze. “You’re talking about redemption,” he said softly.

“Yes. The soul’s journey does not end with death. Heaven or hell, we still have choices.” Wesley nodded toward the book still lying open on his desk. “In heaven, these choices are just more open to us than they might be in hell.”

And if that were so, then heaven wasn’t just a privilege for Jonathan, but an _obligation_. He’d fled Earth as soon as his best - his only - friend stabbed him, long before he could do anything meaningful to balance the stupidity and destruction of the year in the Trio. He’d thought that’d been it; he was doomed to an eternity of being a foolish, wannabe supervillain.

But what Wesley was saying defied all that.

“Thank you,” Jonathan said, and maybe the reverence shone through in his voice, because Wesley blinked.

“Certainly,” he said.

“We’ll get more information for you,” Jonathan promised. “And anything else you need to protect our universe.”

“Just the information will be fine for now,” Wesley told him.

“Right. Okay. Thanks for help.”

Wesley waved them down the hall.

As they made their way back to the lobby, Jonathan kept turning Wesley’s words over in his head. ‘Right past wrongs’ . . . certainly, there were some things in Jonathan’s past that could never be undone. But he’d never before thought that he might be able to move past what he’d been. That he could be more than just “Mad Dog 3” - the kid too weak to stand up to Warren, too foolish to walk away.

Now, the Twilight prophecy threatened the entire universe’s existence, and somehow, Jonathan had become of the players fighting to keep the universe alive. It was the Seal of Danzalthar all over again, except this time on a much bigger scale, and it would take a lot more than a knife in the gut to stop him before he could do any good.

Jonathan felt something in his chest loosen.

In the lobby, the portal was waiting, still impenetrably black at the core and flickering red around the edges. The other occupants of the lobby were still ignoring it. Jonathan and Dennis started toward the portal.

But they had only gotten halfway across the marble tiles of the lobby when a shadow, as dark as an ink stain, rose up from behind one of the columns lining the wall.

It moved almost too quickly to see; one moment, it was rearing up on the far side of the lobby, and then the next, it flashed across the room and wrapped itself around Jonathan.

It was like having a shroud yanked over his head. His vision went black; the sounds around him were suddenly muffled. He could hear Dennis saying something frantically, but Jonathan couldn’t quite make it out. The darkness pressed in even on his mouth - and okay, technically, he didn’t have to breathe, but the lack of anything entering his lungs made him feel panicky and weak. He tried to tear at the shadow, but his arms wouldn’t move.

Then there was a whisper in his ear, sweet and crooning: “ _Stay_.”

This was one of those beings that Cordelia, Dennis, and Ms. Calendar had all warned him about. Jonathan felt his heartbeat kick up a pace faster.

 _No_ , he thought furiously. _Let me go_.

“Sweet heaven soul,” murmured the voice. “You don’t _really_ want to go, do you?”

_Yes, yes I do!_

“I can hear the guilt in your mind. You don’t deserve heaven, do you? You know you don’t.”

Faintly, he could hear Dennis calling: “ _Jonathan!_ ”

 _I know about you,_ Jonathan argued. _You want to just eat my soul, or something like that._

“I’m only here to guide you,” the voice said coyly. “You know you don’t deserve heaven. It’s too good for you. Stay. I’ll show you where you really belong.”

For a moment, Jonathan didn’t reply. Maybe heaven was too good for him. And Wesley _had_ said: “ _heaven or hell, we still have choices_.” If Jonathan stayed in hell, he could still help Wesley figure out the Twilight prophecy - still save the world, but from the dimension he’d actually earned.

“You’re not a good soul,” the voice murmured. “Why would you be in heaven?”

 _Because_ , Jonathan thought. _I could be more_. The idea was tenuous - but then there was a flare of conviction in his mind that he didn’t expect. No, he wasn’t a good soul, not yet. He hadn’t _earned_ heaven, and maybe by that definition he didn’t deserve it either, at least not any more than Wesley. But that didn’t mean he didn’t belong in heaven.

He could be a good soul. He could be more than the Trio, more than the superstar spell, more than every mistake he’d ever made.

“Does that make a difference? Does it matter what you _could_ be?”

_Yes._

“Choose hell,” the voice urged, and there was an edge now - they knew they were losing.

 _No_. _I choose heaven._

And as Jonathan formed that thought in his head, he felt the grip of the shadow loosen around him. Somehow, he’d ended up on his knees. The light returned to his eyes; the pressure on his mouth slipped away, and he gasped in a few deep breaths as Dennis rushed to his side.

“Jonathan!” Dennis cried. “Are you alright?”

“I-- . . .” Jonathan blinked around the lobby. Other than Dennis, nobody had seemed to notice his struggle. The shadow was already gone.

“Jonathan?”

“I’m fine,” Jonathan said.

“Was that--?”

“It tried to convince me to stay in hell.”

Dennis looked worried. “You fought it off, though, right?”

And, after a beat, Jonathan smiled. “Yeah.”

Dennis heaved a breath and grinned back. “Thank goodness.” He held out a hand and helped Jonathan to his feet. “You okay, then?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Really.”

And he was, more so than he’d been in a while.

“Good,” Dennis replied. “Then let’s get home.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter! -________- I swear, I have plenty written and you can count on a chapter published a week; I just forgot yesterday was Monday _oops_. Anyway, enjoy!

Giles hadn’t been back to Italy Squad HQ since the first month of its startup. Back then, the living space had been barely habitable; the plumbing had been only just installed, and the electricity was a luxury. It’d been tolerable, but it certainly wasn’t comfortable.

It was interesting, therefore, to stand in the entryway eighteen months later. Shaded bulbs cast a warm glow over the entire area, and the lounge was crammed with squashy chairs and beanbags. There were posters on every square inch of wall, and even a widescreen TV in front of the largest couch. A warm aroma of roasting garlic and tomato hung in the air.

In Scotland, Xander tended to refer to his squad as ‘soldiers’, and most of the castle’s funding went to expanding the armory or training centers. Andrew, on the other hand, seemed to be trying to turn his HQ into a _home_.

“Mr. Giles!”

Andrew’s sing-song greeting startled him. Andrew had just emerged from a hallway, dressed in a bright violet sweatshirt with what looked like an upside-down arrow emblazoned across the chest. He was standing only a few feet to Giles' right, but he spoke as if he were all the way on the other side of the lounge.

“Andrew, hello,” Giles replied, his voice even. “How--”

Ah. Right.

Andrew was blinking at him blankly. Giles shut his mouth again and waved a greeting, in a short, reserved movement.

Andrew grinned. “Hi!” he replied. “I hope you had a good trip over. You’re just in time, by the way - dinner’s just about to come out of the oven!” He glanced back over his shoulder and called out: “Puteri! Mr. Giles and I have important Watcher things to discuss, so we’re gonna have our dinner in the office. Can you bring two portions there?”

Down the hall, a girl with a bob of short, dark hair peeked around the corner and flashed Andrew a thumbs-up. She had an oven mitt on her other hand.

“Come on!” Andrew said, grabbing Giles’ sleeve and giving him a little tug toward the other side of the lounge. “The office is this way. Oh, but I guess you knew that. Since you helped me set up HQ and everything.”

He led Giles down a different hallway, past a pair of girls bent over a demonology text, and through to the makeshift office. The desk had been cleared of papers in anticipation of Giles’ visit, but there was a whiteboard and a pair of wine glasses set at one corner. A chair had been drawn up to either side of the desk.

“Can I get you anything?” Andrew said quickly, pulling out one of the chairs and then hurrying over to the other side of the desk. “Would you like some wine?”

Giles nodded, and Andrew withdrew a bottle from under the desk with a flourish.

Andrew was evidently trying to make his best impression for this meeting. Whether that was just part of his eager-to-please nature, or if he sensed what was on Giles’ mind, Giles wasn’t sure.

The news of Andrew’s deafness had thrown a wrench into Giles’ plans. Had Buffy not dropped that bombshell on him during their call, Giles would have long ago handed Faith a passport and proposed the two of them take some time away from Slayer Organization. But he couldn’t do that now. He’d personally trained Andrew for almost a year, day in and day out. That had left Giles with a lingering sense of responsibility for the boy - and, by extension, for Andrew’s Slayers as well.

It wasn’t just the time he’d invested, either. The training Giles had put Andrew and Xander through had been completely new. Revolutionary, really. No other Watcher had ever been trained the way Andrew and Xander had been. Giles had taken a gamble, and if that proved to be a mistake, every injury, every _death_ in Scotland and Italy Squad would be on his head.

“I guess you want to hear about how the Slayers are coming along,” Andrew babbled, as he poured a sizable portion of wine into each of the glasses. “We’ve been focusing on staffwork this week - since, obviously, you never know when you’ll be able to find a pole on the battlefield. You know, like Neo, in The Matrix Reloaded?Anyway, strength is up thirty percent, and speed is up fifty. Posey’s having some of the worst time of it - she’s better with smaller weapons. Still, though - it’s super important to be able to use that steel pole you pull out of a concrete anchor to fight off the Smiths, so I’m making sure she gets the basics down before I let her go back to knifework.”

Andrew handed Giles one of the glasses, and Giles took a fortifying drink. Sweetness burst on his tongue. Of course - the boy was serving dessert wine.

“So, as you can see, everything in Italy Squad is going super well. After dinner if you want, you can come watch a training session and see for yourself?”

But Giles picked up the whiteboard on the edge of the desk and wrote: “ _I wanted to talk to you about the deal you made._ ”

"Oh," Andrew said. He licked his lips and nervously ran a hand over the shell of his ear. "You mean when I saved Indira?"

Giles nodded.

"Um. Okay. What do you want to know about it? Because I made a report. I can get a copy for you. I talked about Pocklas and the situation and the summoning I used--"

But Giles cut him off by pushing the whiteboard under his nose, a new message etched out on the surface.

" _Why did you do it?_ "

Andrew frowned. "To save Indira. Duh?"

" _Demon deals are very dangerous. You put yourself and your squad at risk._ "

"No, I didn't!" he retorted. "I know Pocklas! I studied them! You think I'd make a deal with a demon I didn't understand? They're only dangerous to the patient if you don't give them proper payment!"

Writing out replies was infuriatingly slow. If Giles didn't hold up a hand to silence Andrew while he wrote, he never would have gotten a word in edgewise.

" _But you didn't know what that payment would be._ "

"No," Andrew admitted lowly. "That's part of working with a Pockla. But they would only take the payment from the summoner, as long as I reminded them."

" _You couldn't know if the price was too high to pay._ "

"But it wasn't!"

Giles underlined “ _couldn’t know_ ” in the sentence on the whiteboard.

“Well, Pocklas don’t take your life as a payment,” Andrew argued. “Never!”

“ _They may take something you need to survive, like your kidneys, and then is there a difference_?”

Andrew said nothing.

Giles added another sentence: “ _If the Pockla had killed you, what would you have achieved_?”

“Indira would have been alive!” Andrew’s voice was shrill, and his eyes were suddenly shining. “I did what I had to do to save her - and it worked! I’m deaf now, b-but she’s alive, so why are you acting like I messed up? I did something right - for once!”

The hurt expression on Andrew’s face made something twist in Giles’ chest. The boy was still wide-eyed and earnest, trying so hard to please his superiors. It almost pained Giles to deflate the pride Andrew had found in his sacrifice. But he had to be firm.

“ _There is one Watcher in Italy Squad. Who would guide your Slayers if something happened to you_?”

“Mina,” Andrew replied immediately. “Isn’t that why there’s a chain of command? Me, then Mina, then Melanie, then Claire. Just like how on the Enterprise-D it’s Picard, then Riker, then Data, then Worf. _And_ there’s a cooperative, multi-Slayer plan B for my training duties!”

“ _This isn’t television_ ,” Giles wrote, so quickly that his handwriting grew messy.

“But the system works! You said so yourself when we were organizing the squads in the first place! And Indira’s _my_ responsibility. I couldn’t let anything happen to her; I couldn’t!”

Before Giles could write anything in response, he heard the door click open behind him. He turned; the dark-haired girl from earlier was standing in the doorway, two plates balanced on her hands. She looked worried. Giles wondered if she’d heard Andrew’s raised voice.

The girl stepped up to the desk and placed the plates down in front of them. They’d each been served a large slice of lasagna, alongside salad tossed through with some sort of creamy dressing. When her hands were free, the girl turned to Andrew and signed something.

Giles hadn’t yet found the time to learn the American sign language Andrew was using. Other priorities had kept him busy.

Andrew forced a smile, and returned a few quick gestures.

The girl responded.

This time, Andrew hesitated. When he finally shook his head, the girl looked dubious.

But she nodded, and then turned to leave the office.

“We should probably eat before it gets cold,” Andrew said, not looking at Giles. “Puteri worked hard to make it.”

Giles nodded, and for the next few minutes, the office was tense with silence as they both ate.

Giles made his way through a glass and a half of the too-sweet wine. The lasagna was steaming, and the thick scent of garlic and tomato washed over him as he cut into his slice, but his mouth was still dry from worry. He was struggling to put his thoughts into some order that Andrew could understand. It was hard, sometimes, to know what would get through to the boy, and if he really accepted the lessons he was taught. Giles was never certain that Andrew truly understood, or if he had just learned to nod and parrot in order to win approval. Not for the first time, Giles wondered if he had made the right decision in allowing Andrew to take command of a squad.

By the time Giles had finished eating, Andrew still had several forkfuls of lasagna and half his salad left. He was poking halfheartedly at a tomato, perhaps hoping that he could put off the rest of the conversation a little longer by eating slowly. Giles decided to give him this small allowance. He sat back patiently and finished off his second glass of wine.

But eventually, Andrew’s plate was clean as well, and Giles picked up the whiteboard again.

“ _Your dedication to your responsibilities is commendable_ ,” Giles began, figuring Andrew would be more receptive to praise. “ _But I worry that you do not respect the forces you were working with. You could have died._ ”

Writing was really torturously slow. Giles had never developed a propensity for texting, but he was quickly growing envious of the younger members of Slayer Organization whose nimble fingers could tap out a sentence almost as quickly as they could speak it.

“ _My fault_ ,” Giles continued, squeezing the sentence into two inches of space at the bottom of the whiteboard. “ _I wanted to protect you from the harshness of my own Watcher training, but in doing so I may not have given you a full understanding of evil.”_

Forgoing the nights locked in rooms with hungry demons had seemed like the obvious decision when Giles took on Xander and Andrew’s training. There was no need to risk the boys’ sanity by forcing them to look in on unimaginable hell dimensions, no need to let them watch peers die. Or so he’d thought at the time. Giles couldn’t deny that while his own training had been borderline cruel, he’d never once underestimated the force of evil.

“I knew what I was doing. It was a calculated risk,” Andrew said stiffly.

 _“You were dancing with the devil_.”

“I do that every day I live!”

The sharpness in Andrew’s voice startled Giles. He looked up to see that the shimmering in Andrew’s eyes had become real tears that were beginning to leak out at the corners.

“Y-you think I don’t understand evil?” Andrew continued. “Of course I do! I-I understand evil better than most people -- and I know i-it’s not just in vampires and demons.”

Giles paused. He could feel the weight of the marker in his palm, but for a moment, he couldn’t think of any words to say.

“I know the Pockla could have killed me,” Andrew said quietly. “But so what? Better me than her. I’ve done all sorts of things, and even if I know they were wrong _now_ , I still did them. That’s what I’m capable of. I don’t know why I even survived Sunnydale. But Indira’s not like that. She just finished high school, and she has two little sisters, and she likes theater and brought her copy of Monty Python and the Holy Grail from home before she realized it was region locked. If I died, I figure it would have been like Return of the Jedi, you know? Like, when Vader died, it was sad that he died right after renouncing evil, but everyone agrees better he died than Luke.”

“ _No more television references_ ,” Giles wrote furiously. After a heartbeat, he underlined it for emphasis.

Andrew looked like he was about to protest, but Giles held up a hand and continued writing.

“ _A lot of time and resources were invested in your training. We wouldn’t have done that if we didn’t think you would be valuable to us as a Watcher. You have to think about the bigger picture_.”

Andrew shook his head. “They’re not just soldiers, Mr. Giles! They’re girls - I mean, except for three of my Wiccans - and I care about all of them! I’m not going to let any _one_ of them die, and if that means giving my own life in exchange, then that’s what I’ll do.”

Defiant, he lifted his chin.

Giles let out a breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. Why couldn’t Andrew _get it_? The boy just didn’t see -- he was so foolish, _naive_ , guided by too many television heroics. But the world didn’t work like that. How Giles wished it did.

He wiped the board clean and wrote: “ _We don’t always get that choice. We’re Watchers. We have to think bigger than single Slayers and personal redemption_.”

“Are you saying I should have let her die?!”

“ _Watchers have to make hard decisions. We can’t always protect our Slayers”_

“That’s our _job_!”

“ _Our job is to help Slayers do their duty to protect the world and sometimes that doesn’t mean protecting them_ ”

“What are you saying, Mr. Giles?” Andrew demanded, his voice hoarse.

“ _Slayers are going to get hurt and sometimes you have to let that happen_

_sometimes more”_

Andrew stared at the message. His eyes had gone too-wide and round, like a frightened rabbit’s. “Are . . . are you talking about Indira?” he breathed.

Giles froze.

He’d been working alone these past few months, magical allies like Trafalgar notwithstanding. He’d had to be careful. The forces he was dealing with had the potential to be more devastating than anything anyone had faced for millennia, and just one misstep could bring everything tumbling down. The responsibility weighed heavy on his mind, isolating and exhausting. He’d barely dared think of the implications of what he was planning to do.

But now, as Giles met Andrew’s pleading gaze, he saw the stacks of demonology texts lining the office, the training hours tacked up on the wall. And the realization suddenly sank in: Giles _wasn’t_ the last Watcher in the world. Everything that was going on, everything Giles suspected - that was part of Andrew’s tradition now, too.

“ _Not Indira,_ ” Giles wrote.

“Then, who--?”

Giles shot Andrew a pointed stare. This was going to take a lot longer that necessary if Andrew kept interrupting while Giles was busy tediously writing everything down. Obediently, Andrew closed his mouth.

“ _There’s an old legend among Watchers, passed down from trainee to trainee. It’s about the prophecy of Twilight._ ”

Andrew gasped. “Twilight?” he read aloud, having already forgotten he was supposed to keep quiet. “You mean . . . like the Twilight we’re dealing with _right now_?”

“ _Maybe_ ”

“I haven’t heard of this prophecy, though,” Andrew murmured. “When did we cover it in Watcher training?”

“ _We didn’t_ ,” Giles replied. “ _It’s just a myth. That’s what I thought_.”

“But now you’ve realized even old myths are true.”

Shortly, Giles shook his head. He clarified: “ _I don’t know. It’s possible. If it is true, we’re looking at the end of the world_.”

Again, Andrew gasped. “You mean a doomsday prophecy,” he said, his voice hushed.

There was no excitement in his tone. Worry furrowed Andrew’s brow. That surprised Giles; the boy had a flair for the dramatics, and he would have thought that mention of an impending apocalypse would have brought at least a bit of a gleam to his eye. But perhaps, Giles mused, Andrew’s recent run-in with mortality had colored his view of danger.

That might make this explanation easier.

“What does the prophecy say?” Andrew said urgently. “Tell me everything.”

Giles wiped his board clean, and then, in as small lettering as the marker would allow, he began to write:

_“It’s about the next step of evolution. The balance of the world is one Slayer to oppose all the vampires and demons - one Slayer, and when she dies, usually before her 20th birthday, almost definitely before her 30th, another is called. As it has been since the beginning.”_

That was all he could fit on the whiteboard at one time. He passed it over to Andrew, who skimmed the text, nodded, and handed it back.

Giles continued: _“But Buffy activating all the Potentials worldwide changed the balance. The universe has to respond to that. According to the prophecy, this will bring Twilight.”_

“But what _is_ Twilight?” Andrew pressed impatiently.

Giles sighed, and tried, once again, to gesture Andrew to keep quiet. “ _The birth of a new reality - the next step up the metaphysical ladder. As the new realm comes into existence, the walls between the dimensions of our own realm will crumble. It will be our_ _twilight_.”

Finally finished, he handed the board to Andrew, who frowned as he read.

“You think that’s the Twilight that we’re dealing with now?”

Giles made a noncommittal shrug. Suspected, yes. But to truly _think_ a myth that for the past century had only been whispered in the dark by scared Watcher trainees might be coming true - well, Giles needed a bit more than a name to be convinced.

“How would a new reality be born, anyway?”

Again, Giles shrugged. He gestured for the board, and Andrew passed it over. Giles wrote: “ _The prophecy isn’t entirely clear. I am still doing research_.”

“I can help with the research!” Andrew said brightly. “I’m good at it, even if it does give me parchment fingers sometimes. And um . . . if this is all true, do you have any idea about how to stop it?”

“ _There are rumors of an item that can kill a god._ ”

“Kill a god?” Andrew said, frowning in puzzlement. “You mean, like - the new reality will be a god?”

Giles hesitated. This was the worst part of everything he suspected - the one thing above all else he tried not to think about. His unease must have shown on his face, because Andrew’s look of confusion turned scared.

“Mr. Giles? What is it?”

Finally, Giles wrote: “ _Twilight may use the chosen Slayer as its vessel into this world. That will require her to take on power of which we haven’t even dreamed of before_.”

Andrew read this message, frowning as he puzzled through what Giles was saying.

And then - his eyes flew wide. “Buffy! You mean Buffy!”

By instinct, Giles spoke: “Andrew--”

But Andrew was shaking his head too fast to even notice that Giles’ lips were moving. He jumped up from the desk and scrambled back, until the back of his legs hit a pile of books behind him.

“You can’t kill Buffy!” he cried. “You _can’t_! She’s your Slayer, Mr. Giles! You’re supposed to protect her!”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you - we don’t always have a choice!” Giles argued, in his frustration forgetting entirely that Andrew couldn’t hear him.

Andrew stared at him. “I can’t understand you,” he said lowly.

Giles snatched up the board, and scrawled in furious, untidy writing: “ _This is bigger than me or Buffy. No choice.” _

“That can’t be true! Have you _told_ Buffy about this prophecy? What if you just warned her not to make a new reality, because I’m sure if she knew, she wouldn’t want to let our realm die!”

“ _She may not have a choice. Telling her would do no good, only make her feel guilty._ ”

“I’m not letting you kill Buffy!” Andrew wailed.

“ _I don’t know what I’m going to do_,” Giles wrote. “ _It is only a possibility_.”

“You can’t kill Buffy!” Andrew said again. “You can’t - you can’t! There has to be another way. We’ll find it. We can tell the others, and then use the Organization’s resources to figure out how to stop this.”

“ _DO NOT TELL BUFFY_ ” Giles wrote, and shoved the board in front of Andrew’s nose.

“Why not?” Andrew demanded.

“ _We don’t know enough. We could be working her up over nothing._ ”

“But you can’t kill her.”

“ _That’s not the plan_.” Yet. In a worst-case scenario, Giles would do what had to be done. But Andrew couldn’t seem to get past that one stumbling block. “ _Do not tell her_.”

“Hmph.” Andrew crossed his arms. “Why does everyone want me to keep their secrets from Buffy? Xander’s still mad at me for keeping my _own_ secrets.”

But before Giles could ask what he meant by ‘everyone’, Andrew continued:

“Alright, I won’t tell her. As long as we’re looking for other solutions. No killing.”

Shortly, Giles nodded.

“And I’m still not sorry about what I did for Indira, by the way. My Slayers rely on me, and I’m not going to let any of them die for the greater good. That’s not _my_ definition of ‘the needs of the many’.”

The way Andrew shifted his weight from foot to foot betrayed his anxiety, but his eyes were defiant as he spoke.

“And I did a lot of research about Buffy’s entire reign as Slayer, and I know you used to believe that, too. You fought the Council for her, more than once.”

 _But we weren’t talking about the end of the universe then_ , Giles wanted to say. But Andrew had already proven his stubbornness about listening to _that_ argument, so he just inclined his head and tucked the whiteboard under his arm.

“Um. Is that everything you wanted to talk to me about?”

Another nod.

“Right. But you’re not leaving until tomorrow. Did you still want to see the training session this evening?”

And again, Giles nodded.

“Okay. Well, I’ll have someone get your guest room set up,” Andrew said. “I’ll be back in two seconds.”

Andrew still looked a little shaky as he left the room, clearly rattled by their conversation. Giles felt a twinge of guilt at that. He wondered, for a moment, if he’d made the right decision in telling Andrew everything - he was so careful to protect Buffy from his suspicions, but he had laid out everything in front of Andrew so bluntly it was almost harsh.

Perhaps Andrew was a Watcher. And perhaps he was the only one Giles _could_ tell, as Andrew, unlike Xander, did not live with Buffy in Scotland. But perhaps Giles should have been more protective of his innocence. You were, after all, only innocent once.

But, Giles reminded himself, Andrew had already sacrificed his true innocence back in Sunnydale. That was one of the things that had made him a prize candidate for Watcher’s training in the first place. Giles picked up his wine glass and drained the last few drops.

The door of the office opened again. It wasn’t Andrew, though, but the same girl who had brought them their dinner several minutes earlier - Puteri, Giles remembered.

“Are you finished?” she asked.

It was the first time Giles had heard her speak. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d expected, but her voice was louder, more forceful, than he would have thought. He blinked.

“Erm. Yes.”

She nodded, and came over to the desk to gather up the empty dishes and glasses. As she straightened, wine glasses perched on top of the dinner plates, she turned back to Giles.

"I don't know what you guys were arguing about, but I heard some of the first bit, when Andrew was defending his choice to save Indira."

Giles was startled by the sharpness in her tone. “Ah,” he intoned, not sure what else to say.

“Look, I know what the rest of Slayer Organization says about Andrew sometimes,” Puteri continued. “People think he’s soft. On us, and on himself. They think he organizes too many movie nights and spends too much money on nice food for us. But he does that for a reason.”

Puteri shifted the plates onto one hand, so that she was free to place the other one on her hip.

“My sister is a trauma specialist. I talk to her about what Italy Squad is like. She says - well, Andrew can’t protect us from trauma, because that’s all part of being a Slayer. But the way Andrew runs the squad, he does everything he can to improve our quality of life and social support. And that helps us be resilient. Italy Squad may not be known as the best fighters in the Organization, and I know our staking ratios are only average -- but we have the lowest rates of posttraumatic symptoms of _any_ squad.

“Andrew knows what he’s doing. When he was seeing that therapist last year, he asked about trauma and resilience, and he listened. He has unusual methods sometimes, but he’s a damn good Watcher, and he’s loyal to us. We trust him. Maybe we don’t all want to be his best friend, but we respect him. And that’s _because_ of things like the demon deal he made for Indira.”

“I only want Andrew to be the best Watcher he can be,” Giles broke in, when Puteri paused for breath. “I don’t doubt that he’s deeply committed to his responsibilities, but perhaps he could execute them better.”

“Then tell him off for something like showing off by lecturing about pop culture!” Puteri snapped. “Not for saving our lives! I don’t know what ideas your Watcher’s Council has about what it takes to be a Watcher, and maybe the Council is a centuries-old institution with experience I can’t even imagine or whatever, but if you all think we’re better off with a Watcher who doesn’t put our safety above everything else, I don’t think you have any right guiding Slayers in the first place! We want Watchers who _care_!”

“I--” Giles began, but Puteri tossed just her head and stalked out of the room. Giles watched her go, stunned.

It was ironic, he thought numbly, to be accused of being a Watcher who didn’t care.

But too many years of apocalypses tended to change a person. At first, it’d been easy to say “never her”. In youth, he’d promised to never step aside and simply _allow_ harm to come to the Slayers in his charge - sworn to do whatever it took to protect them. But then the universe had asked, again and again: “Her, or the good of everything?” Choose - the universe, or her. Her wishes; her happiness; her safety. And maybe Giles hated himself every time he made that choice, sacrificing a little more of _her_ , but at least the universe had been safe a little while longer.

Perhaps, though, it’d become a little too easy to give up.

When Andrew returned to lead him to the guest room, Giles was quiet as he turned the thoughts over in his head. He allowed Andrew to bring him to the room, but then he requested to be left alone.

“ _I’ll come to training shortly_ ,” he wrote on his whiteboard. “ _First I have something to do_.”

When the door closed behind Andrew, Giles pulled out his phone and dialed an American number.

He didn’t know what to do about the Twilight situation. Maybe there were alternative solutions; maybe there weren’t. But Buffy wasn’t the only Slayer he had a responsibility for.

“Faith? Listen, I want you to look in the bottom drawer of my desk. There’s an envelope for you.”

He listened to Faith rustle around in the papers until she found the passport he had ordered for her.

“Oh! Thanks, G,” Faith said. There was a note of surprise in her voice. “But I’m not ready to punch out right yet.”

“I thought you were done with bloodshed.” This life was killing her, Giles knew. He could get her out - just for a moment, he could be the Watcher he’d once been.

“I am, but there are going to be other Lady Genevieves out there. If I stopped stabbing and started, I don’t know . . . playing social worker to the Slayers, maybe I could help walk a few bad girls back from the brink.”

For a moment, Giles was quiet.

Faith let out a short laugh. “You think it’s a lame idea, right?”

“On the contrary.” And for a moment, he was tempted to ask to join her. So tempted that the words were on the tip of his tongue before he had time to think.

Returning to _protecting_ Slayers - no gray morality, no hard decisions. Just guidance, as it was meant to be.

But he already had a responsibility for the Slayer that was on the front lines of this fight. If his suspicions were right, Buffy was going to be in a lot of trouble, very soon. Perhaps he’d end up having to make yet another decision that would make him hate himself, but if there was some way - any way - to save her, he had to find it. He couldn’t be distracted.

“I wish you the best of luck,” he said finally. “And if you need funding for this endeavor, do not hesitate to ask.”

“Thanks, G. That means a lot.”

“I’m happy to help.”


	7. Chapter 7

_Thwap. Thwap._ Pivot. _Thwap. Thwap._ Adjust grip. _Thwap. Thwap._ Pivot.

Nisha breathed, letting her body fall into the rhythm of the exercise. She felt the smooth grain of the staff in her hand, its weight as she spun it away from the punching bag. One foot slid back. Sweat trickled down the nape of her neck.

 _Thwap. Thwap._ Pivot. _Thwap. Thwap_ \--

“Nisha, what are you doing here?”

Nisha was mid-pivot when the unexpected voice made her stumble. Her foot twisted under her, and she let out a startled cry as her balance dissipated. There was a twinge in her ankle; her other foot hit the ground hard. She didn’t quite land on her ass, but it was a close thing.

“Geez, Nisha. Didn’t mean to scare you. You okay?”

Nisha glared as Claire rushed over, looking worried. “‘M’fine,” she muttered. She straightened quickly and gingerly shifted her weight onto the twinging ankle. There was a mild pang - nothing serious. Not sprained, then. Thank God. “What’d you go sneaking up on me like that for?”

“I wasn’t ‘sneaking’,” Claire protested. “You just weren’t paying attention. You have to be more careful; what if that’d been on the battlefield?”

“Then I’m sure Mr. Wells would give me an earful.”

“As well he should!” Claire replied. “Is that what all this about? Because he told you off in training?”

Nisha avoided her gaze. “It wasn’t fair. I’m way better than _Posey_ , and he didn’t say anything to her.”

“Yeah, but Posey is improving. You’re not trying.”

“Not you, too!”

“Well, it’s true!” Claire snapped. “As soon as you have the basics, you stop training because you think that’s good enough.”

“Well, I’m training _now_ aren’t I?” Nisha retorted. “Just like you and Mr. Wells wanted. So what’s your problem?”

“You missed ASL class again! I came looking for you because we were worried. And now you’re biting my head off!”

Nisha flinched. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I just needed to work off some steam.”

“Sure. But it’s probably not a good idea to miss ASL class - even if Andrew is in Scotland for the next couple of days, it’s still really important for all of us to practice, because we’re not going to be able to write things down on the field for Andrew.”

Andrew. Of course. Everything always came back to Andrew - Andrew, and his deafness. Nisha’s scowl darkened.

“Yeah,” she said tonelessly. “Right.”

Claire sighed. “Fine, I’ll let you work through whatever this is. But don’t miss ASL class again, alright?”

“Mmm,” Nisha replied.

Claire rolled her eyes. Nisha ignored her.

When Claire left the training center again, Nisha hefted the staff in her hand and slammed it into the punching bag.

Freaking _Andrew Wells_. He was short and weak and scrawny, and he had a high-pitched voice and never _shut up_ about television and movies no one else had even seen. He was whiny; he was youngerthan half of them. Immature, nagging, annoying--

And yet, everyone else seemed to _adore_ him.

Nisha remembered how Italy Squad used to be. There’d been a divide, once, between the Slayers who loved Andrew and the ones who wondered if their Watcher was really capable of - well, anything. At first, the first group had been much smaller and largely populated by the more senior Slayers, who always said things like: “Oh, I know he comes off strong, but you’ll get used to him. He knows what he’s doing, I promise.” But even the most loyal - even _Claire_ \- used to groan with everyone else when Andrew named battle plans after Starfleet maneuvers or when he began to babble about the differences between French and Italian meringue. Andrew could get on your nerves, but then at least you had plenty of people to gripe with.

But then - Andrew had sacrificed his hearing for Indira, and now _no one_ wanted to hear a bad word against him.

Even Nisha had felt bad for him, at first. She’d been taken aback by his deafness, never really believing her awkward, childlike Watcher capable of a sacrifice like that. It was humbling, and she’d been swept along with the rest of the squad. Of course she’d support Andrew. Of course she’d protect him. Of course she would love him.

But Andrew hadn’t changed, and soon the newness of his sacrifice wore off, and Nisha was as irritated as ever before. And this time, she was alone with her thoughts.

A chirp from the other side of the room suddenly interrupted her volley of blows against the punching bag.

Nisha dropped the staff immediately, feeling dizzy with the rush of anticipation that flooded through her system. There was only one person in her phone contacts with that chime.

“ _hey nikita! whats up?”_

Nisha grinned at the nickname as she slid down the wall to sit on the floor.

“ _-_____-,”_ she replied.

She stared at the screen, painfully impatient for the next message to come in. Sometimes, a response could take more than an hour. Nisha _really_ hoped this wasn’t one of those days.

One minute. Two.

Then: _“ugh, sergeant geek still riding u hard?”_

Nisha let out a breath.

_“hell yes. he says i don’t push myself hard enough in weapons training. as if i’d have to know how to use a staff if he’d just let us use guns”_

_“who even uses staffs??”_

_“slayers, apparently_ ”

“ _lol”_

 _“ikr???”_ Nisha pressed send, and leaned back. But, after a heartbeat, she lifted her phone and typed out a second message: “ _italy squad sucks w/o u_ ”

A moment’s pause.

When the phone buzzed again, the reply was one of the longest Nisha had ever received from Simone. “ _why stay??? there’s a place for u here, if u want it. we can do this slayer thing the right way. the fun way. i’m smart enough not to say no to a gun and everything else our power can bring us. ;) u no u want 2, nikita”_

And she did want it. She wanted it so bad - wanted it the moment she’d heard the door slam shut the first day Andrew had returned to Italy Squad and she realized that Simone had left. Only an ill-timed pang of pity for Andrew and the glares of the other Slayers had stilled her feet.

As if Simone had read her mind, another message came in: “ _forget about sergeant geek. u have no duty to him. got 50 other worshippers to idolize him and eat up his propaganda. u could be way more with me. come onnnn nikita! i need a deputy_ ”

It took only a second’s thought.

“ _ok_ ,” Nisha replied.

\-----

Scotland HQ was in a frenzy. It was almost two in the morning, but the halls were bustling with Slayers and Wiccans and support staff, all shouting orders and status updates to one another.

“Shapeshifting vampires,” were the words on everyone’s lips. There were a few set rules every Slayer of the Organization had learned since being called those eighteen months ago: vampires were stronger than humans, faster too - but so were Slayers. A wooden stake solved most of your problems. Decapitation worked well too. And vampires sure as _hell_ did not shapeshift.

And yet, wolves and panthers and clouds of bees and even _mist_ had slipped into Scotland HQ and reformed into a small army of the undead. They’d taken the scythe, and they’d escaped before anyone in Scotland Squad knew what was happening.

Everyone in the castle was mobilizing for the chase. The armory had been cleaned out; security was being checked and double checked; the jet was being prepped for the flight to Japan. A couple girls with recent sprains were splinting their injuries as they rushed from station to station. Everyone had to be ready to hit the ground running in Tokyo.

Or. Well.

Andrew was as busy as the rest of them, running weapons’ check on each crossbow or stake or knife that got handed out to the Slayers, but a surly expression was fixed stubbornly on his face.

“What’s with him?” Renee hissed to Xander as she fell in step beside him.

Xander shot a glance over his shoulder. Andrew was definitely pouting now. “I told him he couldn’t come,” he muttered. “It’s probably been a lifelong dream of his to visit the country that gave him Godzilla and Dragon Ball, and he has to stay behind.”

“Ah.”

“I feel bad,” Xander continued. “It’s not like he’s not a good Watcher anymore. But we just can’t put him on the front lines when he can’t hear someone coming up behind him. I know he’s been working on his archery so he can help from the sides, but with an enemy that can turn into actual mist and slip past every line of defense we put in front of him, it would just be reckless to take him with us.”

“You’re doing the right thing,” Renee told him. “I’m sure he gets that.”

Xander let out a breath. “Yeah. It’s not like we couldn’t use him with us, either. He has more encyclopedic knowledge than any of us except maybe Giles - who is _still_ MIA, by the way. And Andrew is a, uh, _creative thinker_ , which also helps. Sometimes. But we just can’t put him at risk because it might be easier to have him along. ”

“I guess you’ll just have to ask yourself ‘what would Andrew do?’ if you find yourself in a situation where _creative thinking_ would come in handy.”

Xander smiled wryly.

“But seriously,” Renee continued. “It’s probably a good thing to have someone staying behind. I know Buffy was all about bringing _everyone_ to Japan, but I don’t like the idea of leaving HQ with only a single giantess and miscellaneous staff for defense.”

Xander nodded. “I told him we needed him to help hold down the fort.”

“Do you think he believed you?”

“I don’t know.”

Renee made a sympathetic sound. “Maybe I should stay behind, too.”

“What?” Xander replied, startled. “No, we need you! You don’t have to stay behind just to make Andrew feel better. He’s a big boy; he’ll handle it!”

“That’s not why I’m suggesting it!” she retorted. “I’m serious about defending HQ. And if something happens while all of you are off in Japan, Dawn and Andrew are going to need some backup. Or were _you_ just feeding him that line about ‘holding down the fort’ to make him feel better?”

“No, I wasn’t!”

“Then?”

Xander sighed. “Yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry, I just - well, I like having you around. I was kind of relying on having you come to see Dracula with me.”

“Hey, you can rely on anyone in Scotland Squad to come with you.”

Sheepishly, he smiled. “Right. Well, then, why don’t you select three other Slayers to stay here with you?”

“Aye, Mr. Harris.”

“Call me ‘Xander’!”

\----

Andrew wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly why he was being tasked with holding down the fort instead of going to Japan. It was just like those thousands upon thousands of times in movies that a faceless father would pat his son on their head saying “I can’t take you with me because you have to look after your family now”, even when the boy was too small to raise a sword.

But he also knew that nine times out of ten, the fight ended up coming back to that kid’s home, and that too-small boy ended up being the hero of the story anyway. Maybe being handed protection of Scotland HQ was just a consolation prize, but it was an important one.

At least Xander had left him with a small squad of support. Between the Slayers, Andrew, and Dawn, there was a security detail of six. Of course, the non-slayage staff of Scotland HQ were also still milling about the castle, but they weren’t battle-trained, so they weren’t going to do much in the way of defense. Andrew mapped out patrol routes for the small team, deciding to alternate patrol and rest in groups of three. He assigned himself first watch; Renee and another Slayer named Annika headed out to the grounds, and Andrew drew up a chair in the command center to keep an eye on the security footage being streamed from twenty strategic locations around the castle.

The first day passed quietly. The shadows grew weaker as grey morning light filtered through the surrounding forest. Everything was still. No wolves, no panthers, no bees -- and okay, maybe there was mist, but Andrew was fairly certain this wasn’t of the vampiric variety. The teams traded off every few hours, each shift as dull as the next.

Almost forty-eight hours after Scotland Squad had headed out to Japan, Andrew pushed the feed from one monitor to a split screen with the neighboring computer, and used the now-blank screen to pull up Eve Online.

He’d missed the broad-shouldered “Ondrej the Brave” he played in the game. Gallente race, Intaki bloodline, of course. Loyal to the federation ideals of democracy and tradition - a voice of nobility in the frequently anarchic universe. It’d been far too long since he’d had the opportunity to play. In Italy Squad, it seemed he always had more administrative work to do, more training schedules to design, more research to do. But if he was tasked with listlessly watching unmoving black-and-white feeds for the next who knows how many hours, he might as well multitask.

The first thing Ondrej the Brave did when Andrew logged in was go mining.

Alright, so not the most glamorous of heroic conquest, but a hero needed funds. And oddly, Andrew found that the slow upward tick of numbers was less tediously mind-numbing than it had been in the past - rather, it was almost relaxing.

Ondrej the Brave warped into an asteroid belt and began to prospect the cores. Jaspet - excellent. Andrew activated his mining laser, keeping an eye on the local channel to monitor for pirate activity. The chatter was fairly innocuous in this area. A few small groups were discussing missions and group directives, and there were couple of individuals roaming about in search of new players to chat with.

One of these lone individuals approached Ondrej’s ship. Andrew tensed, anticipating an attempt on his hard-earned ore. But the player - with the username x_scorpio11 - simply sidled up to him, and commented:

“ _nice ship_ ”

“ _thank you”_ Andrew replied, pleasantly surprised by the compliment. His Arazu cruiser wasn’t a bad ship, but nor was it particularly powerful. _He_ liked it, of course - it had gotten him through its share of tough battles - but it wasn’t the kind of ship that tended to draw attention from the other players.

“ _asl_?” x_scorpio11 asked.

Andrew brightened immediately. “ _YES. still learning tho. are you deaf too???”_

“... _no??_ ”

“ _why did you learn asl_?”

“ _age/sex/location???_ ” x_scorpio11 clarified.

Andrew winced; apparently, he really had spent far too much time offline lately. “ _oh. 22/m/rome. usually_.”

But x_scorpio11 was already wheeling their ship away. “ _sorry not interested in dating deaf guys_.”

Andrew didn’t know how to reply to that. On the one hand, he wasn’t particularly interested in online dating in the first place, and if he’d known x_scorpio11 was patrolling for dates, he would have warded them off from the beginning. Watcher life was just too busy for romance, either digital or otherwise. But on the other hand . . . what was so wrong about ‘deaf guys’ anyway? The exchange left a sour taste in Andrew’s mouth, and he scowled his way through mining the next three asteroids.

The conversation weighed on his mind, and he was so distracted that he almost didn’t notice the second ship that drew up next to his. It was a Caldari battleship - Rokh build. The dark sleek ship was out of place in the Gallente-dominated asteroid field, and when Andrew finally spotted it, he frowned.

An invitation to a player chat channel popped up. The channel was titled: “ _Mad Dog 1 to Mad Dog 2_ ”.

Andrew froze. He felt his skin prickle as the hair on the back of his neck all stood on end.

No - it couldn’t be. It _couldn’t_.

Andrew nearly shut out the invitation. But no; it had to be a coincidence. “Mad dog” was an innocuous term. Someone was just trying to be friendly in the game. They had no idea that Andrew could suddenly smell the interior of the Trio’s old van - the faint mold of the unwashed rugs; the incense from Jonathan’s spells.

Andrew accepted the invitation.

Breath frozen in his throat, he typed: “ _hi?_ ”

“ _Hi, Andrew._ ”

Oh shit. _Shit_. Andrew felt his heart skip a pace in his chest, and his fingers fumbled as he snatched for the mouse. He had to leave this chat; he had to leave it now.

But Warren knew him too well. “ _Don’t go! I just want to talk._ ”

It was dangerous to talk to Warren. Andrew shouldn’t reply - shouldn’t even say one word in response.

“ _I promise, I’m just worried about you._ ”

“ _you made me into a murderer_ ” Andrew shot back.

“ _No, I didn’t!_ ” Warren argued. “ _That wasn’t me! Amy told me all about it, and I’m sorry you faced that, but do you really think I would ever tell you to stab your best friend? Come on, Andrew. You know me better than that, don’t you?_ ”

Andrew knew he shouldn’t be listening to this. Actual!Warren, First!Warren - it didn’t matter. Anything that came from his lips was poison.  

“ _you hurt katrina and willow_ ”

“ _Ow. Way to cut a guy deep, Andrew_.”

And, irrationally, guilt unfurled in Andrew’s gut.

Before he could think up a clever response, Warren continued: “ _Katrina was my mistake. I’m sorry you got involved with that. And Willow was a special circumstance. She killed me! You have to give me some leeway.”_

“ _willow’s a good guy. you’re not_.”

“ _You know it’s not that simple. Come on, Andrew. I just want to talk. I heard about what happened_.”

Andrew swallowed, apprehension suddenly tightening his muscles. “ _??? what do you mean_ ”

“ _You’re deaf. I wanted to express my condolences. That’s got to be tough._ ”

“ _it’s okay_ ,” Andrew typed back. A mix of emotions rose up in response to Warren’s apparent compassion. He wondered, for a moment, how Warren had found out.

But that worry was drowned by another thought that emerged from the back of his mind: maybe . . . just maybe, more than one ex-villain could seek redemption.

Andrew shoved the idea away. He knew what Xander and Willow and Dawn and Buffy - what _everyone_ \- would say in response to that.

“ _Look, I’m just worried about you,_ ” Warren continued. _“I can help you._ ”

“ _how?_ ”

“ _I can build things for you, things to help with your deafness._ ”

“ _it was a demon deal, aids and implants don’t help_ ”

“ _That’s not what I meant_ ,” Warren said. “ _I could build some tech that captions what people say, or whatever else you need_.”

“ _and what do you want in return?_ ” Andrew demanded.

“ _What, I can’t want to help an old friend without needing some kind of payment?_ ” Warren replied. “ _You really think so little of me?_ ”

Andrew wasn’t sure what to think. Warren _was_ right; the First may have worn his face, but Warren had nothing to do with Jonathan’s death. Had nothing to do with the blood on Andrew’s hands.

“ _I just want to help. I know you’re trying to make up for what you did, but don’t you think the Slayers are taking advantage of you?”_

“ _what do you mean,_ ” Andrew asked again.

“ _You’re deaf, dude. They can’t go asking you to give up your hearing or whatever. They should take better care of you than that. I would take better care of you than that.”_

“ _no one asked me to do it!”_ Andrew argued. “ _i chose to do it because indira would have died if i didn’t! i’m doing good things now, and you can do good like me too. you don’t have to be evil.”_

“ _Do good like you? You mean play daddy to a bunch of girls, and not in the fun way? I’ll pass. We deserve more.”_

In front of the computer screen, Andrew flinched.

Warren just didn’t get it. Andrew wasn’t sorry he was deaf. He’d made a sacrifice to keep Indira safe, and he was _proud_. Maybe Andrew had made a lot of mistakes in his past, but when he’d summoned that Pockla, he’d been on the level of Gandalf and Neo and Obi-Wan and every other hero who’d given themselves over to protect the innocent, just for a moment. Because of _Andrew_ , Indira was alive.

But to Warren, that didn’t matter. Belatedly, other memories surfaced in Andrew’s mind: Warren arguing to kill Buffy the first time she’d thwarted their schemes; the sickness in Andrew’s stomach when Warren chuckled and admitted that he wasn’t sure the skin really would protect Jonathan. Warren had wanted to murder Buffy before she’d even known they existed. He’d been willing to hang Jonathan’s life on the line for the chance at a little extra power.

Maybe Warren hadn’t been the one guiding Andrew’s knife in the basement of Sunnydale High, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.

As that realization settled over Andrew, he felt his mind clear. A thought clicked: Warren was talking to him through a _computer_.

Maybe Warren was telling the truth. Maybe he really was only worried about Andrew and wanted to offer him tech and misplaced compassion. Or maybe--

Andrew snatched up his phone and punched out a mass text to every Wiccan still on the grounds: “ _get willow. we might have a hack_ ”

Then, before Warren could register the pause, he turned back to Eve Online and typed back: _“deserve more? like what?”_

_“Power. Real challenges. We were so amateurish for just trying to take over Sunnydale - think entire swathes of the world! Amy and I are going to get the Americas. I know you always wanted to go to New Zealand. Imagine ruling it instead!”_

Andrew read Warren’s words with one eye, half-turned away from the computer to watch for incoming backup.

“ _i dunno…_ ,” he replied. _“that seems like a lot of responsibility”_ And not nearly as fulfilling as being a Watcher, but he had to keep Warren talking to him.

“ _That’s what you’d have lackeys for. You wouldn’t have to do anything.”_

_“but why do you want to share that with me? you can have new zealand yourself if you don’t bring me in”_

_“I have to look out for my buddies, don’t I? Besides, it’d kind of be like of old times. Without Sparky of course, but hey no one’s perfect. I forgive you, and I won’t hold you on the outside with crap jobs just because you made one mistake. I’d trust you, not like those Slayer-fascists.”_

Andrew didn’t have time to react. The sharp scent of ozone prickled at his nose, and he spun his chair around as orange smoke cleared around Willow’s figure. Her expression was set - thin lipped, steely-eyed.

“ _What’s wrong?_ ” she signed.

Andrew pointed at his computer screen. Then, he replied: “Warren. I think he’s trying to get in. Can you check?”

Willow’s face darkened dangerously. She strode over to the wall of monitors and crouched down to look over his shoulder at the chat log open on his screen. Andrew shrank back, wondering wildly if he had to convince her that he wasn’t _really_ considering Warren’s proposal - just stringing him along to keep him busy.

But Willow did not react. She nodded curtly, and drew up a chair to the computer next to Andrew’s. A few rapid strokes on the keyboard, and she was weaving her way through Scotland HQ’s computer system. From the way her frown deepened, Andrew guessed his suspicions had been correct.

He turned back to Eve Online.

“ _they really don’t like me,”_ Andrew told Warren. “ _and i try really hard. it’s annoying_.”

“ _What can you expect? They’re idiots_. _I bet they can’t even tell the difference between Riker and Picard._ ”

Andrew felt affronted at that. Alright, he couldn’t speak for the whole of the Slayer Organization, but Italy Squad certainly knew the difference between Commander Riker and Captain Picard. Most of Italy Squadcould even hold a decent discussion on the relative strengths of each - not to mention rattle off the weaknesses of a half-dozen demon species Warren had never cared enough to learn.

But in the chat channel, he only said: “ _yeah, i guess that’s kind of lame_.”

“ _Give yourself to the dark side, Luke. You can do way better than servitude for a bunch of girls.”_

_“how can i leave? they’re watching me all the time.”_

_“I can get in, get you out,”_ Warren replied.

Andrew felt cold. He swallowed, and glanced over at Willow. She was still scowling at her computer screen, her fingers tapping out commands. He hoped she worked fast; he didn’t know if what Warren was saying was true, but the idea that Warren was confident he could so easily slip past Italy Squad’s security made him feel nauseous.

“ _how_?” he typed out.

But before he could press enter, another message flashed across the screen.

“ _YOU TRICKED ME_ ”

Andrew snatched his hands back from the keyboard as if burned. His screen wiped blank, and then blackness was rolling through the control room as one after another, each monitor blinked off. Andrew twisted around, staring wide-eyed at each black screen that surrounded him.

Only Willow’s monitor still glowed. She was typing furiously, her expression never shifting from the thin-lipped determination she’d worn since she’d arrived in the room. There was no black in her eyes or hair, but Andrew felt small in her presence nevertheless.

Andrew saw an AOL box pop up on Willow’s screen.

_“GET OUT OF MY SYSTEM WITCH-BITCH”_

Willow ignored the message. She was shifting through windows on the computer that Andrew didn’t recognize - there were elaborate schematics of something that looked like a missle; spell sigils he’d never seen before. She was working so quickly her fingers were fumbling.

Maps. Rosters. Windows were closing as fast as Willow could open them. Andrew saw her mutter something, and the tips of her fingers glowed gold. The images on the computer screen froze.

She lifted a hand, her fingers slightly curled. A wave, and every window saved, and then vanished.

Finally, her screen too went blank.

Willow turned to Andrew. She looked simultaneously tense and exhilarated.

“ _Okay?”_ Andrew signed uncertainly.

A small, strained smile. “ _Okay_.”

“ _What’s happening?”_ he asked.

Willow paused, then pulled out her phone. She wrote: “ _He was trying to get information on our defenses. I stopped him and back-hacked him._ ”

Andrew stared at her, awestruck. “So, those things you were looking at - those were Warren’s plans?”

She nodded. Then she typed: “ _How did you know he was trying to hack us?”_

“Um. I guessed. It’s how he works,” Andrew replied. “Everything’s a master plan, you know? Like, he can’t just rob an amusement park without also plotting to betray one of us. So if he was trying to recruit me, I thought he was probably trying to do something else deeper than that too.”

Again, she nodded. “ _Good call. I’ve put a stasis on our system so he can’t get in for now. There’s a lot to sort through when we get a second. But I need to get back to Japan_.”

“Okay,” Andrew said. “Um, thanks for stopping by.”

This time when Willow smiled, it was warm. She reached out and patted his shoulder.

Weakly, Andrew grinned back. There was a glow of pride in Willow’s expression, and it made Andrew’s shoulders straighten under her touch.

He could still feel his heart pounding, but he sucked in a breath. Warren was gone. Andrew had stood up to him; he’d protected Slayer Organization.

Willow stepped back. She waved a short goodbye, then vanished.

Andrew watched the spot she'd been in. After a moment, he turned back to the now-useless screens of the control center. His phone was still on the desk, and he picked it up.

As he hefted the phone in his hand, three messages came through in quick succession.

From a blocked number: " _Traitor. I will remember this._ "

From Claire: " _Nisha is gone._ "

And a mass text from a Slayer in Japan: " _Mr. Harris has been stabbed._ "


	8. Chapter 8

“Hey, you big idiot!” Cordelia shouted, so loudly that she could feel the strain throughout her entire being. “Listen to me!”

She sent every paper in the room scattering, but Angel - or Twilight, whatever - just looked passively at the window and said: “We have a draft. Shut that tighter, Lieutenant.”

“Oh my god, how can you be so stupid? Of course that’s not the wind! It’s _me_ , you numbskull!”

The lieutenant stood on shaky legs and went over to the window. She attempted to tug it more firmly shut.

Cordelia groaned. “Why won’t you listen to me?! Have you gone completely brain-dead?”

Her frustration gusted through the room, so strong that Angel’s cape whipped around his ankles. The lieutenant glanced back, plainly frightened, and tugged with renewed vigor at the closed window.

“Hmm,” Angel said. “I suppose I’ll have to have someone look at that. Sit down. We need to discuss the compromise in our system.”

“Th-that wasn’t our division, sir,” the lieutenant replied quickly. “That was the responsibility of the witch and her boyfriend--”

“And I will deal with Amy and Warren accordingly. In the meantime, I want your forces dealing with the consequences. The Slayer Organization has too much information; they could easily breach our defenses as it stands.”

“And I hope they do!” Cordelia snapped. “Maybe a Slayer-powered kick to your butt will knock some sense into you!”

Angel continued staring serenely at the lieutenant. Furious, Cordelia snatched up a pen holder from the lieutenant’s desk, and chucked it as hard as she could.

The ceramic cup shattered as it hit the wall. The lieutenant jumped, her facing draining to a ghostly white - and finally, even Angel turned to peer down at the mess of broken pottery.

“What was that?” the lieutenant demanded.

“Put it together,” Cordelia muttered under her breath. “It’s not that hard. What sort of thing tends to be invisible and throws things around? Come on, Angel - you _visited_ my apartment.”

“Perhaps a side effect of one of our new defensive spells,” Angel decided. “I will alert our magical division of the event.”

“Oh. My. _God_.”

Cordelia knocked a stapler off the desk. The lieutenant flinched; Angel didn’t blink. But Cordelia hadn’t really expected the stapler to get through to him. The clatter of the metal against the floor made her feel a little better - just marginally.

There was a sudden tug around her middle.

“Angel!” Cordelia called. “You better open your ears, mister, by the next time I get down here! Or I swear - there’s going to be hell to pay! Maybe even literally.”

Another tug, sharper this time.

“Yeah, yeah - I get it, Jonathan. Hold your horses.”

She took one last glance at Angel - still dressed in that god-awful mask and ridiculous cape - and sighed. “How do you even manage to get yourself in these messes?” she muttered.

Then, she reached back into herself and found her tether. It was pulled taught; she grabbed hold and let it drag her up.

She’d prepared herself for the pull of earth, but when Cordelia emerged in heaven, she still sucked in a sharp breath at the sense of _wrongness_ that descended over her. She ground her heels into the soft earth of Jonathan’s heaven, and exhaled.

She tossed her hair over one shoulder as the desperate compulsion to dive back to earth and shout at Angel finally drained away. Jonathan was watching her, and as he took in her expression, his eyebrows lifted.

“Not much success, I take it?”

Cordelia huffed. “He’s not even _trying_ to listen to me.”

“No, I suppose he wouldn’t, being possessed by Twilight and all.”

Cordelia scowled. “I tried appearing as a reflection in the window, like Dennis suggested. Then I tried just shouting at him, blowing in some wind, even _throwing_ things! Nothing!”

That caught Jonathan’s attention: “He didn’t notice you chucking things around? What were you throwing?”

“A ceramic mug and a stapler! But he just passed it off as magical side effects of a defense spell or something.”

Jonathan winced sympathetically. “Maybe Wesley will have another idea of how to get through to him.”

“He’ll probably have a lot of ideas,” Cordelia replied. “But whatever’s going to work is going to have to shake the grip this Twilight has on him. Angel used to be able to hear me in the wind if I so much as whispered, but Twilight’s made him completely deaf.”

Jonathan shot her a look.

Cordelia just pressed on. “We have to figure out what the holes are in this Twilight entity. Me shouting can only get us so far. When I’m down there, it feels like . . . Angel’s asleep or something. He’s still in his body, but he has no awareness of anything. Everything his body does or hears - that’s all Twilight.”

“That makes sense, from what Wesley’s been telling us.”

“You mean, about how Twilight supposedly had to have Angel roll over and _agree_ to possession?” Cordelia ran a hand across her face. “I just can’t get how Angel hasn’t learned yet that being possessed by super-powerful beings is pretty much universally a Bad Idea.”

Jonathan shrugged.

“How can the Champion of the Powers be so dense, anyway?”

“I dunno,” he replied. “But we should probably get going. Ms. Calendar wanted us to meet her as soon as you got back.”

Cordelia glanced at him. “Does she have more information?”

“Ms. Calendar didn’t say. She just wanted us to drop by.”

“Alright, then,” Cordelia said. “And you know, you can just call her ‘Jenny’. I don’t think high school etiquette applies in heaven. Not to mention thatyou graduated.”

But Jonathan made a face. “That would feel weird.”   

He turned, and began to stride away down the forest path.

As they walked, the trees around them blurred. The ground hardened under their feet, and the air grew warmer on their skin. The breeze that rustled through Jonathan’s heaven became stronger, tossing through Cordelia’s curls rather than lightly stirring the edges.

And then - they were standing in Jenny Calendar’s heaven.

For Jenny, paradise was a seaside boardwalk on the edge of sprawling city. People ambled by on the boardwalk - many of them children. Waves were lapping lazily at the sand, and seagulls wheeled in the sky.

“Ms. Calendar!” Jonathan called.

Jenny was was sitting a few feet from the edge of the water, on a brightly patterned beach towel. There was a tablet computer resting in her lap as she chatted with someone sitting next to her. At Jonathan’s shout, she turned - as did her companion.

Cordelia’s eyes widened. “Oh,” she said softly.

Joyce Summers was sitting beside Jenny, a tense expression on her face. When she saw Jonathan and Cordelia standing on the boardwalk, she rose quickly to her feet. A heartbeat later, Jenny followed suit.

“Jonathan, Cordelia,” Jenny said warmly, but there was a seriousness in the lines around her eyes. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Yeah. Hi,” Jonathan replied. He glanced at Joyce, who had taken a half-step forward. “You’re, um. Mrs. Summers. Aren’t you?”

Joyce nodded. “You’re Jonathan? Jenny’s been talking about you. You look familiar, actually - have we met before?”

“Uh, yeah. I came to Buffy’s welcome home party junior year. That was. Um.” Jonathan shrugged, looking oddly uneasy. “We didn’t really talk, though.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you properly, then. And it’s good to see you too, Cordelia. Although I’m very sorry to see any of Buffy’s old classmates up here.”

Cordelia acknowledged this with a half-nod. “Thank you.”

She watched Joyce carefully for a moment. It’d been years since she’d last seen Buffy’s mother, and even when Cordelia had been in high school, they’d never much found the time to chat. The few times Cordelia had encountered Joyce had been when she’d ended up driving Buffy home - then, the conversation usually followed the same lines: “ _Hi, I brought Buffy home.” “Is she okay?” “Yeah, she’ll be fine.” “Oh, thank you so very much_.”

Cordelia remembered the concern Joyce had had in her eyes - it was sharp, and made her face looked more lined. It was how Cordelia had always imagined a real mother should look when their daughter came home late in Sunnydale.

That familiar worry was in Joyce’s expression again, and her fingers were restlessly tapping against each other. But there was also a hardness in her look that Cordelia didn’t remember.

“Joyce wants to talk to you guys about what’s going on on Earth,” Jenny explained, as she gathered up her towel and tablet from the sand.

“Jenny mentioned that our visions of Earth are being tampered with,” Joyce said quickly. “But that you two have been going down to watch. Please -- I’ve been watching my daughters, but I need to know that what I’m seeing is true.”

Cordelia sucked in a breath and glanced over at Jonathan. “That’s on you, hot stuff. You’re the one who’s been shadowing the Slayers.”

Jonathan grimaced. “Er,” he said. “Um. Well, what _have_ you seen?”

“Buffy and Dawn are in Nevada, where Dawn is going to school and Buffy does local Slayer things.”

“Oh. Well.” Helplessly, Jonathan looked to Cordelia. “What do I say?” he hissed.

“The truth, probably.”

“So, I take it that’s not what’s actually happening?” Joyce said. She didn’t look entirely surprised, but the lines around her face deepened.

Jonathan shrugged uneasily. “It’s hard to put into words,” he muttered.

“Maybe it would be better to talk back in my place,” Jenny offered. “Not out here on the beach.”

Jonathan nodded quickly.

Jenny draped her towel over one arm and led the way back onto the boardwalk, away from the water. Seaside chalets lined the other side of the boardwalk, all small and lightly colored, with windows all over. About a hundred feet further down the path, Jenny turned off toward a cute, eggshell-blue cottage.

She pushed open the door. Inside, the cottage was cooler than outside, as if it were air-conditioned. Several gadgets Cordelia didn’t even recognize were perched on the shelves, emitting quiet hums and blinking periodically. Sunlight filtered in through the large box windows in the front room, and small signs of witchcraft were scattered throughout - dried herbs on the shelf here, quartz stones lined up on the windowsill. Jonathan was visibly enraptured by a runed tapestry hanging on one wall. He looked almost as he were about to reach out and run his fingers along the edge.

Cordelia took this all in consideringly. Practical witchcraft wasn’t all that much a popular activity in heaven, where one’s environment could be altered at will. And yet, Jenny had surrounded herself with clear signs of magic. Jonathan was still staring at the tapestry, his expression one of mixed wistfulness and something like regret.

“Here - why don’t we sit down?” Jenny suggested, gesturing to the sofa and pair of armchairs in the center of the room.

Her voice appeared to shake Jonathan out of whatever thoughts he’d gotten wrapped in. He looked up sharply, and coughed. “Right.” Quickly, he took one of the armchairs.

The others sat down as well - Cordelia took the other armchair, and Joyce and Jenny sat next to each other on the sofa. Joyce perched herself almost on the very edge, and looked directly at Jonathan, who shifted nervously in his seat.

“Right,” he said again. “So, I, uh, went down on Earth to check on my friend, Andrew, and he’s working with Slayer Organization, so I saw some of Buffy and Dawn. But not that much, either.”

“Slayer Organization?” Joyce echoed quickly.

“Uh, you know, when Buffy turned all those Potentials into Slayers last year? Some of them work for her.”

“Oh,” she said. “Yes, I saw that. I didn’t know she’s still working with them.”

“Oh. Yeah. Anyway, main headquarters are in a castle in Scotland, and that’s where Buffy leads from. She’s in charge of the whole organization.”

“How many girls is that now?”

“Uh, I dunno,” Jonathan replied. “A couple hundred?”

The lines on Joyce’s forehead deepened. “And she’s in charge of all of them? All on her own?”

“Well - no. The others help. Andrew’s in charge of a squad of fifty. But Buffy is the main leader.”

“That’s still so much responsibility,” Joyce said quietly. “How can she handle all that? Is she doing okay?”

“Uh,” Jonathan answered nervously.

“This might work better if Jonathan answers questions at the end,” Cordelia broke in, a wry smile twisting at the corners of her lips.

“Oh,” Joyce said, shooting Cordelia a startled glance.  “Right. Of course. Please continue, Jonathan.”

Jonathan nodded, and Cordelia could see the line of his shoulders relax slightly.

“Buffy is leading the Slayer Organization from Scotland,” he said again. “I don’t know much about what she actually does, but Xander and Willow are helping her from there. And Dawn.”

Immediately, Joyce’s gaze sharpened. “Dawn? In Scotland?”

“Joyce,” Jenny said, lifting one hand. “Let Jonathan talk.”

“Yes, I know, sorry. But - why isn’t Dawn at Berkley? Why’s she in Scotland?”

Jonathan winced. “Probably because she’s a giant right now, I suppose.”

“A _giant_?!”

“Joyce--”

“I-I dunno anything about it really,” Jonathan said hastily. “I just know what I saw. She was, like, twenty stories tall, and she was sitting outside the castle on the grass. I mean, she looked fine. Completely healthy - just, uh, really big. I don’t know how it happened or anything, but I promise she looked okay. She was learning sign language for Andrew, and I guess she was really good at it. And she seemed happy!”

Cordelia glanced at Jonathan, eyebrows lifted. Perhaps Dawn looked happy now, sure, but that little fact seemed to pale when you considered everything else they knew about what Slayer Organization was about to go up against. But Jonathan wasn’t looking at her, and as he spoke, he continued to skirt around the issue of _the end of the universe_.

“And I-I guess Buffy looked happy, too? I didn’t see that much, but if the stress is getting to her, I didn’t see. I can, uh, try to pay more attention to her and Dawn the next time I go to Earth, if you want. But that’s really all I saw myself.”

Jonathan finished, and shrugged. But he didn’t sit back; he looked as if he were trying to carefully pick his next words.

Cordelia, however, elected to cut in. “Unfortunately, this is Earth, we’re talking about, and it can’t seem to hang on without some annual world-saving.” Jonathan may have seen the Summers sisters himself when he was down on Earth, but the Twilight prophecy was her deal. For his part, Jonathan looked relieved when Cordelia spoke up.

“Another apocalypse?” Joyce said, her forehead furrowing.

“Yep. Angel’s being a royal idiot,” Cordelia replied. “Pretty much, he’s gotten himself possessed by this entity of a higher realm. And if things work out the way the prophecy predict, it’s the end of our entire realm - earth, heaven, and hell.”

“We’re working on a solution,” Jenny said quickly. “We’ve got several people in the afterlife on it, not to mention whatever they’re doing down on Earth.”

Joyce looked faintly pale. “Buffy has to stop this apocalypse, too?”

“Actually,” Cordelia replied. “She’s supposed to help _cause_ this apocalypse - at least, according to the prophecy.”

“That can’t be right! Buffy wouldn’t!”

“Didn’t think Angel was that stupid either,” Cordelia retorted. “But it might be out of their hands. The Powers That Be, in their infinite wisdom, seem to think that it’s time for the world to go out with a bang.”

“The Powers -- what are you talking about?”

“That’s what I was telling you about scrying,” Jenny said, before Cordelia could reply. “Jonathan and Cordelia’s visions were blocked, and we think this might be what the Powers are trying to hide.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Who knows how their minds work?” Cordelia said. “The Powers have always had some weird priorities.”

For a moment, Joyce was quiet. Then: “So, let me see if I understand this right. This . . . Twilight . . . is supposed to be the end of Earth, and my eldest daugher is supposed to help cause that somehow. And she might not have a choice, because The Powers That Be are behind all of this?”

Jonathan shrugged. “Yeah. Pretty much.”  

“I should have been there,” Joyce murmured. “I should have been watching -- I shouldn’t have let this happen.”

Jenny touched her hand gently. “What would you have done, Joyce? You _were_ watching. This wasn’t your fault.”

“I always knew this Slayer thing was a bad idea.”

“Well, it’s not like _anyone_ can do anything about that,” Jenny said, and there was a wry smile on her face, but she sounded sympathetic.

And there was that hardness in Joyce’s expression again, underlying all the worry. “I want to help you stop Twilight.”

Cordelia met her gaze evenly and offered her a small nod. “Of course.”

“And I think we need to spread the word.”

Jonathan frowned. “‘Spread the word’?”

“You’re talking about the end of the world. Everyone up here has someone down there they need to protect. Everyone has kids or spouses or even great-great-great grandchildren still on Earth. No one wants the world to end.” Joyce looked to the window at the boardwalk outside, where other souls were milling about. “They’d want to know, and they’d want to help. If we gather people together, we’ll have a much stronger force.”

“You mean, tell _everyone_?” Jonathan said.

Jenny looked dubious. “It’s not just the end of Earth. Heaven’s on the line here, too. There could be panic.”

“We need to stop this!”

“Actually,” Cordelia said. “I like that thought.”

Jonathan and Jenny both turned to look at her, and Cordelia shrugged one shoulder, crossing her arms. “It’s not a bad idea. Besides us, only Dennis, Doyle, and Wesley are working on this. There have been times that Angel Investigations has been bigger than that - and we _are_ talking about the end of our entire realm here. The sheer number of common souls up here is an untapped resource.”

“I understand that,” Jenny replied evenly. “But even in heaven, mass panic is not something to play with. You’d get misinformation and fear and even riots, all with heavenly power.”

“Well,” Cordelia said. “I can think of one town in particular that was particularly good at ignoring mortal danger, _and_ had a ridiculously high mortality rate.”  

“You mean . . . Sunnydale casualties?” Jonathan asked.

“Exactly. _We_ all knew how to go about our normal lives with an apocalypse hanging over our heads. Buffy knew that, and she used it to her advantage - remember our graduation?” She looked pointedly to Jonathan.

He met her gaze. “Yeah,” he said, his voice soft.

“No panic. No riots. Just efficient kicking-of-evil-butt. All they needed was a strong leader and some direction. And,” Cordelia added, deliberately. “Leading evil-fighting teams _is_ on my resume. No matter who’s name was on the Angel Investigations’ boss plaque.”  

“It’s a good thought,” Jenny conceded. “Sunnydale souls would be well-equipped for this. But how do you think we should find them? Word-of-mouth is slow, and heaven is big.”

Cordelia assumed her best _duh_ face. “You guys really don’t get this whole ‘ _higher power’_ thing, do you?”

She snapped her fingers, and then a sheet of paper appeared in front of her nose and fluttered down into her hands. The sheet was covered in small font, listing name after name after name - hundreds of casualties, each a victim of the California Hellmouth.

“So,” she said, lifting up the sheet and giving it a little shake. “Do we want to start alphabetically or by proximity? Or -- shall I just notify them all simultaneously?”

And - man, she never got tired of the look in people’s eyes when she did that. Being a higher power was _awesome_.

\-----

Andrew was fidgeting.

Okay, so that wasn’t something particularly uncommon. But today was worse than usual. His fingers were tangled up together, twisting around and around each other, and he kept plucking at the hem of his sleeves while his foot drummed an arrhythmic beat against the tile floor. He didn’t want to be in Scotland right now. Andrew had been away from Italy Squad far too long, and now Nisha was gone, reports were flooding in about Simone’s bank robberies and bullying of the general population, and _Warren_ had threatened them - and okay, maybe it hadn’t been a direct threat, but he’d still said he would ‘remember this’, and that had to mean something very-not-good. But Andrew also didn’t want to _not_ be in Scotland. The team had just gotten back from Japan, and Xander was still bedridden, and that’s where Andrew was right now; standing at Xander’s bedside, waiting anxiously for him to wake up. Buffy was organizing meetings to debrief everyone on what happened in Tokyo and how to restructure while Xander was still recuperating. Andrew needed to be here, but he also needed to be Rome. The indecision left him so restless that he kept springing up from the chair left by Xander’s bed.

A sudden tap against one shoulder made Andrew shriek and leap at least a foot in the air.

He twisted around and landed in a half-defensive stance -- but it was just Willow, looking both chagrinned and somewhat pained. She gestured emphatically for him to quiet down.

“ _Sorry_ ,” Andrew signed, looking only a little petulant. “You startled me.”

“ _Sorry_ ,” she signed back. Then, she glanced around. the room. _“Where’s Renee_?” Willow used just the sign for ‘R’ to indicate the name, but as Renee hadn’t left Xander’s bedside in the thirty-six hours since the team had returned to Scotland, it was immediately obvious who she was looking for.

“Training. She didn’t want to, I think, but she said she’s the best with throwing weapons and had to pick up for Xander. I offered to go instead, but she said she had to stop waiting. She looked kinda sad when she said that, actually. And Dawn’s right outside the window, too, but she’s sleeping.”

Willow nodded.

“So, are you here to watch Xander?” Andrew asked, skittering a little out of the way so that she could stand next to the bed.

But Willow shook her head. Then, she lifted her hand. That was when Andrew finally spotted the two sets of glasses she was holding: one had thin, rectangular lenses with wire frames, while the other pair was larger, with dark purple frames and square-ish lenses. Willow lifted one up, then the other, clearly asking him to choose.

Andrew frowned. “You don’t wear glasses, though?”

Willow shook her head. She pointed at him.

“I don’t either! I’m deaf, but I have twenty-twenty vision!”

Again, she shook her head. She placed the glasses on the edge of Xander’s bed so she could pull a notepad out of her pocket. “ _Stella and I worked out a spell_ ,” she wrote. “ _We charmed the glasses so they’ll caption what people say._ ”

Andrew’s eyes widened.

“Whoa, really? That’s so cool!” He snatched up the closest pair - the one with the wire frames - and slid them on. The lenses had no corrective power to them, he noticed.

He looked at Willow. Her lips moved.

And there, along the bottom edge of his vision, somehow projected so it didn’t look like reading text off glass a half-inch from his face: <<testing testing one two three.>>The words glowed gold for a half-second, then vanished.

Andrew gasped delightedly. “That is so _cool_!” he said again. “I can read what you’re saying!” He wrenched off the wire glasses and pushed on the other pair. “Say something again!”

<<testing testing four five six?>>

“Oh my god, this is the coolest thing _ever_. It’s like Geordi’s visor, ‘cause it’s translating sound waves into something I can see, except not really ‘cause I guess I can’t really see ultraviolet or infrared or x-ray stuff like he could. But this is this best - I mean, I always was on the sub side of the sub-dub debate, you know?”

He beamed, practically glowing.

<<i’m glad you like them,>> Willow said, and Andrew felt giddy to see her words, again, flash across the bottom of his vision. <<it’ll only work on recognized languages and you have to be looking at the person. that’s to protect you in crowds.>>

Andrew bobbed his head. “Cool, cool. This is _awesome_!”

And then, without any further warning, he launched himself forward to wrap his arms tightly around her.

“Thank you, thank you!”

He could feel her laugh, and a hand patted awkwardly at his back. He clung on for several more seconds, before finally pulling back.

<<so which do you want?>> Willow asked, a fond smile on her lips.

“Um.” Andrew glanced down at the wire-frame glasses in his hand. They were dignified, something like what Giles would wear. Andrew had the image of himself sitting primly at his desk, his hands steepled together as he read an old dusty-smelling tome. He could push the glasses up the bridge of his nose, all respectable and librarian-like.

He pulled off the other pair and peered at those as well. These looked hardier, and they were purple. That was a _Hawkeye_ color. This time, Andrew saw himself perched on the very edge of a building, squinting through his glasses down his arrow at an enemy so far away they were a pinprick in his vision. In his mind’s eye, he was wearing the violet boots and horned mask of the 1983 miniseries.

After only a heartbeat, Andrew put the wire glasses on the bed, and slipped the purple frames back on.

“These ones,” he declared proudly.

Willow glanced at him appraisingly. <<thought you might pick those,>> she said. <<they look good.>>

Andrew grinned again. “Thanks! They’re Hawkeye-ish.”

<<hawkeye? i didn’t know he wore glasses. of course i’m not that well versed on superheroes.>>

“Well, no - he doesn’t,” Andrew admitted. “He wears purple, though. And hearing aids, not glasses.”

Willow’s eyebrows lifted. She smiled. <<yeah. you’re definitely hawkeye then.>>

Pleased, Andrew grinned, and ran a finger along the edge of his frames.

<<anyway i just wanted you to have that before the meeting in an hour. should make it easier for you to follow.>>

Andrew nodded enthusiastically. “Totally.”

 _< <_any change on xander?>> Willow added, now glancing down at the bed.

Andrew followed her gaze. Xander was still lying motionless, looking pale and scraped. His eyepatch had been removed, and the absence of the patch made his face seem oddly younger.

“Not really,” Andrew muttered. “Is he supposed to sleep this long?”

He continued staring helplessly at Xander, willing him to move. No words flashed in his vision.

After a moment, Willow tapped his shoulder. When Andrew finally glanced up, she smiled wryly. <<the glasses don’t work unless you’re looking at me. remember?>>

“Oh. Yeah.”

 _< <_he’s in a healing trance. the spell put him in stasis and he’ll wake up on his own when he’s healed enough. i don’t know how long that will take _._ >> Her gaze flickered to Xander’s monitors, which were all blinking steadily. <<much longer and we’re going to have to start docking his vacations days though.>>

“We have vacation days?”

<<no. that was a joke.>>

“Ohh.”

After a pause, Andrew said softly:

“I’m glad you were there. If you hadn’t been, that trap would have killed him. And you almost _weren’t_ there.”

<<you mean because you called me back because of the hack?>>

Andrew nodded.

<<you called me to scotland because of a cyberattack from our enemy that would have severely compromised our system and put the entire organization at risk,>> Willow argued. _ <<_you did good. and i was there in tokyo in time so don’t worry about it. maybe because i had to poof in right then by latching onto buffy’s signature i was actually closer than i would have been.>>

Andrew wasn’t entirely mollified. It was too close. Xander almost _died_. But miserably, he nodded again.

<<don’t go all broody what ifs on us. okay? you did good. you’d get employee of the week for catching warren’s hack if we did that kind of thing around here.>>

Uncertainly, Andrew smiled. “Alright.”

<<good,>> Willow said. <<meeting is in an hour. see you then. and i’ll take over watching xander duty after that.>>

“Okay,” Andrew replied.

Willow left.

Andrew turned back to Xander’s bed and sighed. There was no one else in the room in a talking state, so Andrew took off his glasses and folded them up. They felt strange on his nose, anyway - he supposed it would take some time to get used to wearing them.

He was just considering sitting down again when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket.

There was a new text, from Indira. “ _Do you have a moment? Need to talk_.”

Andrew frowned. That didn’t sound good.

\----

It was Mina who called the meeting, but it was Claire who led it.

The now forty-six members of Italy Squad, excepting Andrew, had all filed out into one of their terrain training fields outside Rome. The ground was craggy and dotted with sparse underbrush, and old scratches from weapons’ practice marred the landscape here and there. The squad formed a circle on a relatively flat section of land, with Claire, Melanie, and Mina, sitting together at one end.

Claire stood, and the chatter amongst the Slayers and Wiccans hushed. Finally, only Raya was making noise, laughing uproariously at one of her own jokes. Then Kali touched Raya’s wrist, and she, too, quieted quickly.

“Hey, Squad,” Claire said, her voice carrying easily over the entire group. “Sorry to call you all out, but there’s been news from Scotland.”

“Is Andrew okay?” Indira asked immediately. “Did something happen?”

They periodically got updates from main HQ, but it was unusual for them to all be called out into a full meeting like this. The Squad was on edge, and when Indira spoke, a rustle of whispers broke out.

“No, no,” Claire said quickly. “Not Andrew. But the team that went to Japan - well, Mr. Harris was injured. He’s out of commission for a bit, so Andrew’s staying in Scotland a little longer.”

“Is Mr. Harris going to be alright?” Elizabeth demanded. She’d been a transfer from Scotland Squad early in her training; something or another in the castle messed with her allergies, but she still harbored a soft spot for her old squad.

“I’m told he’ll be fine. Ms. Rosenberg was on the scene and was able to put him in biostasis the moment it happened. But because Mr. Wells is going to be away a few days more than we expected, we called you here to talk about the training schedule Mina’s devised for the next week. Mina?”

Mina stood, as did Melanie. There was a large posterboard tucked under Mina’s arm, which Melanie took from her and held up.

“The duty rotations are going to stay fairly similar to before,” Mina announced. “Cooking, cleaning, patrol - everyone has more or less the same hours, on the same days. But because our Watcher is gone, and we need to keep up with training, I’ve added one more duty to the roster: teaching.”

“For the next week, we’re becoming assistant Watchers,” Claire added, smiling.

A few surprised murmurs rose from the Squad.

“None of us have trained as Watchers,” protested Cole, one of the male Wiccans.

“No,” Claire agreed. “And we’re not asking any one of you to replace Mr. Wells. His Watcher training prepared him to teach us a wide variety of skills. It took him a year to finish that training. But _we_ have almost fifty people here. What we’re asking is for each of you to specialize.”

Mina pointed at the poster, which displayed a color-coded chart. “CJ will lead us in bare hand-to-hand combat on Monday. Sun-ok, you have Tuesday’s history lecture. For the Wiccans, we have Arjun in charge of defensive spells, and Mary in charge of offensive training. And so forth. We’ll pass around schedules with more details.”

Mina nodded to her right at Arjun, who picked up a stack of papers from the ground and began to pass them around the circle. The squad members each took a sheet and peered at their pages curiously.

“And Andrew helped us with the plan,” Melanie put in. “It was Nita and her amazing ASL classes that gave us the idea--”

At the other end of the circle, Nita flushed, but looked deeply pleased with herself.

“--And so we developed this cooperative, multi-Slayer Plan B for training duties. It was originally supposed to be for emergencies, but we figured now is as good a time as any to start using it.”

“The idea is that each teacher has been assigned a speciality based on what they’re already proficient at,” Mina said. “And we don’t expect all of you to be able to design lessons straight away - all Mr. Wells’ resources are still available in HQ, so please seek that out or advice from your fellow squadmates.”

“But if you want us to organize lesson plans on top of everything else, isn’t that a lot of extra hours?” Kali was staring apprehensively at the schedule, looking somewhat overwhelmed.

Claire shook her head, and pointed to a blue square on Mina’s poster, which was labelled _‘leisure_ ’. “Our goal was to cut into free time as little possible. It wasn’t as if any of us wanted to give up our relaxation--”

Around the circle, there was a titter of laughter.

“Anyway. Not everyone has training duty. There’s only so many things we’re learning right now, after all. And what you’ll notice is that people who _do_ have training duty will have a little bit shaved off of their other responsibilities. Forty-five minutes in the kitchen instead of an hour, half a patrol shift, things like that. On the other hand, anyone who doesn’t have training duty has a little more time on each of their other responsibilities. But everyone is retaining at least eighty-five percent of their total leisure hours.”

“Deal?” Mina asked to group at large. “Does anyone have any questions?”

Nervously, Posey put up a hand. “Um. What if you don’t think you’re qualified for your assignment?”

Melanie replied first. “Posey, you’re the best by far in any of Andrew’s demonology lectures. _And_ you can read the Latin and Ancient Greek in the texts. You’re perfectly qualified to lead demonology.”

“Um, I suppose,” she muttered. “But I’m no _Andrew_.”

“And we’re not asking you for that; you’re just filling in for a week. If you really feel uncomfortable, though, talk to me or Claire or Mina, and we can try to figure something else out. But,” Melanie added - and here, she smiled. “You should know that Mr. Wells recommended you specifically for that job.”

Posey blinked, and turned pink.

“Other questions?” Mina asked.

Another hand shot into the air.

It was Francesca this time - a short girl, with waist-length violet hair that perfectly matched the color of her skirt.

“Uh, yeah,” she said quickly, when Mina nodded at her. “Is anyone else wondering what the whole _point_ of the Watcher system is?”

She was met with stares. Some were bewildered - others, outright hostile.

“What are you _talking_ about?” Elizabeth demanded, before any of the leaders could reply.

“Just hear me out,” Francesca insisted. “It just doesn’t make any sense, does it? There’s so much dependent on a Watcher - training, command, research, everything! And they’re pretty fragile, compared to us. But because there’s so much on them, if something happens to a Watcher, the Slayers are down. How does that make sense?”

“Hey, we look after ourselves fine!” Mina retorted sharply. “Look at the training schedule, huh?”

“That’s just it! Why haven’t we been doing this from the beginning? We’re all reorganizing now, but this system works better than one guy in charge of everything, doesn’t it?”

“Why _is_ Andrew gone, anyway?” Cole piped up. “We just lost another teammate. Shouldn’t he be here?”

Natalia was sitting to his right, and she rounded on him. “Oh, don’t tell me you think Simone and Nisha were right!” she snapped. “We don’t need any more deserters -- so if you think they had the right idea about things, why don’t you just leave now and save us all the time?”

“I never said that!” Cole protested.

“Sure the hell sounded a lot like it!”

“Guys - hey!” Claire interrupted sharply. There was a firm edge to her voice, and she held up a hand warningly. “This is a squad meeting. We listen to everyone.”

“Even a harebrained thing like _that_?” Natalia snapped, jabbing a finger furiously at Cole.

“Yes! If Cole is worried, he’s right to voice it! Cole, Mr. Wells knows what happened with Nisha, and he thinks we can handle ourselves for a bit. We might not all have made the same decision, but Mr. Wells is the kind of person who feels he _needs_ to be there for his friends when they’re injured. Alright?”

Cole was still frowning, but he nodded.

“Francesca, you’re worried that the Watcher system is fragile?”

“Yeah. I’m _not_ criticizing Andrew,” Francesca explained, staring meaningfully at Natalia. “But it seems like a poorly thought-out system overall.”

“The Watcher system itself has worked for centuries in guiding Slayers, and Mr. Giles has adapted it for our situation--”

“Has he, though?” Francesca argued. “Sorry, just -- he changed the training to get trainee Watchers through faster, but the system _itself_ is the same. And that doesn’t make any sense. Maybe it worked when it was one Slayer at a time, but to have fifty Slayers in a squad, and one Watcher is still in charge of everything they would have been for just one Slayer? That’s crazy.”

Claire frowned, looking thoughtful.

“And it’s not just me!” Francesca insisted. “Ava’s been talking with me about it, too. Right?”

“I wish you wouldn’t bring me into this in front of _everyone_ ,” Ava muttered, her eyes fixed on the grass in front of her. “But . . . yes.”

Claire stepped into the middle of the circle now. When she spoke, she addressed the entire squad, her gaze slowly swinging around to look at each and every member. “Alright, how many people here don’t like the Watcher system? Raise your hand if you agree with Francesca. This isn’t a vote to take Andrew out of power, but just an informal poll to figure out what issues we need to talk about.”

Francesca’s hand shot up, followed after a second by Ava’s. Then CJ, who looked indifferent to the scandalized gazes shot in her direction. Then Mary, who wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes, then Sun-ok. Cole. Kali. Daniela.

Eight.

And then - to a sudden burst of tittering across the circle, Melanie, Italy Squad third-in-command, put up a hand.

“I don’t think it’s good for Andrew,” she said, in response to the stunned looks around her. “I think the stress is getting to him.”

The others considered this. Four more hands went up.

“Thirteen,” Claire announced.

There were several faces around the circle that were clearly torn, not quite ready to put up their hands but also not really sure if they were aligning themselves with Natalia and Sophie, who were glaring daggers at everyone with a hand raised. But no more votes were forthcoming.

“A minority,” Mina said. “But clearly, we have to discuss it. Claire, Melanie, and I will organize a time to put together a group meeting for anyone who wants to attend sometime over the next week. We’ll let you know what we decide.”

“Thank you for your honesty, guys,” Claire added. “And one thing that Melanie brought up - Andrew’s stress. I think . . . we shouldn’t tell him about this quite yet.”

A wave of unhappy mutters rushed through the circle.

“I’m not saying we should keep this a secret! But Andrew’s job is very important to him, and I think we should broach the issue to him when we all have our thoughts more in order. After the next meeting, when we know exactly what we’re dealing with, we’ll tell him. But there’s no reason to upset him now.”

A few mutters persisted, but there were no open protests.

“Thanks for your attention. I think that’s the end of this meeting. Unless - Mina, Melanie, is there anything else to add?” Both shook their heads. “Then everyone is dismissed. Come talk to us if you have any individual questions.”

The circle broke. Slayers and Wiccans got up in groups of twos and threes, murmuring to each other in urgent, uneasy tones. Some were glaring at Francesca, while others stared angrily after Natalia -- regardless, there was a tension running throughout the entire Squad.

Off to one corner, Indira was standing away from the rest of the group. She’d been quiet through almost the entire meeting, but a grim scowl had come over her face. Now, she turned away from the others and pulled her phone out of her pocket.

“ _Do you have a moment?_ ” she typed into a new message. “ _We need to talk._ ”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.) This chapter has a trigger warning for discussion of past attempted rape.  
> 2.) Due to an overabundance of italics, transcriptions from Andrew's subtitling glasses are now formatted with arrows instead.

<<you told him?>> Claire hissed. <<what the hell would you do that for?>>

Andrew’s glasses didn’t translate volume, but it was clear by the way Claire half-turned away and hunched close to Indira, that he wasn’t meant to understand. He wondered for a moment if he should clarify how the glasses worked, or if he should look away. Curiosity, however, prevented him from doing either.

<<it wasn’t right to leave him out,>> Indira insisted -- and that was interesting, because she had her back to him, but her response flashed across his vision just the same. Apparently, he didn’t have to be able to see someone’s lips to read their words. Huh.

The three of them were in the office, clustered around the desk. When Andrew had arrived in the entrance to HQ, his suitcase tucked under one arm, and asked the room at large: “So, uh, when’s the no-Watcher meeting?”, Claire had immediately grabbed his wrist and dragged him away. Indira had followed after them. As Indira and Claire argued furiously, Andrew had watched from the sidelines, nervously fidgeting with his glasses. He’d barely had time to explain how his latest accessory could translate anything they said.

<<we didn’t tell him for his own good,>> Claire argued.

<<it’s not for his own good for us to talk about whether or not he should lose his job when he’s not even there to defend himself>>

<<why didn’t you bring this up in the squad meeting?>>

<<how could i know you would listen?>>

<<you can’t just keep decisions like this secret.>>

<<look who’s talking.>>

Claire visibly heaved a sigh and drew a hand across her face. <<fine. fine. he’s here now. i guess he’s coming to the meeting too.>>

<<good,>> Indira retorted. Her weight shifted from one foot to the other, betraying her discomfort with confrontation, but she held steady under Claire’s glare.

Both girls turned back to Andrew, and Claire stepped forward to address him. <<i’m sorry that you got called back early,>> she said, speaking slowly as if she fully didn’t trust the glasses to translate what she was saying.

“Oh, I didn’t, not really,” Andrew assured her quickly. “Xander woke up a couple hours after Indira messaged me, so it was all good.” And alright, so maybe he had originally been planning to stick around a few days after Xander recovered because Scotland HQ was buzzing with debriefing and speculation and planning, but he didn’t mention it.

<<alright,>> Claire said, although she didn’t look entirely convinced. <<the meeting’s in the lounge in ten. do you want to head over?>>

Andrew nodded, and quickly tucked his suitcase up against the desk. “Lead on,” he said brightly.

Claire and Indira brought him back out into the hallway. <<we actually started the cooperative training program,>> Claire told him, as they made their way toward the lounge. <<but you’re back so we’ll discuss whether or not we’ll call it off early. we only planned a week.>>

Andrew noticed that she had said ‘ _we’ll_ discuss’ and had not asked anything about _his_ decision as Watcher. He pushed that thought to the back of his mind, deciding quickly that it was just innocent matter of wording. “Yeah, Indira told me all about it,” he replied. “I think you guys should totally keep it up for the week. It’s a good idea to practice-run emergency plans like this before we actually need them, you know?”

<<good point _._ >>

There were eighteen squad members waiting for them in lounge. When Andrew, Claire, and Indira entered, most of their gazes swung around to stare at them. Most expressions looked guilty; Andrew noticed that Mary and Kali wouldn’t meet his eyes at all. But on the other hand, CJ smiled at him easily, and Natalia, who was perched on the loveseat with her arms crossed, gave him a firm nod of solidarity.

“ _Welcome home,”_ signed Melanie, who had just finished tacking up a large sheet of paper to the wall. Then she paused, and gestured curiously at his glasses.

“Oh! Willow made them for me,” Andrew said, remembering he’d only explained the glasses to Indira and Claire. “They have a spell on them, so they’ll translate everything you guys say, as long as I’m looking at you. They make subtitles, which is super cool.”

Melanie let her hands drop to her sides. <<you can understand what i’m saying?>>

Andrew nodded. “Yeah! It’s really awesome - it’s all gold and glowy, right in front of me.”

<<then you don’t need a translator for the meeting?>> Mina said, standing beside Melanie. She was carrying a notebook under one arm.

“Nope. As long as I’m looking at whoever’s talking, I’m good.”

Mina looked faintly relieved, and put her notebook down.

Claire was peering around the room, a slight frown on her face. Then, she moved over to Melanie, and with a touch to her shoulder, urged her to turn away.

<<eighteen?>> she muttered. <<there was more interest than this. where is everyone?>>

<<we couldn’t get everyone off of duty. and a lot of people didn’t want to question the system in front of andrew. when he came home they changed their minds about coming.>>

Again, the thought crossed Andrew’s mind to mention that he didn’t need to see someone’s lips for his glasses to translate. But instead, he just looked away.

Indira had sat between Natalia and Sophie, who were both leaning close, as if to protect her. Andrew immediately understood why; some of the other Slayers were staring at her with gazes that were less than friendly. Natalia and Sophie were glaring back, and there was a clear divide in the room. Cole and Francesca and Ava and Mary were clustered together on one side, and Natalia and Sophie were accompanied by Posey and Elizabeth and Aisha. Others had taken seats near each side's leaders, and there were several people still standing in the center, not sure which side to sit with.

Andrew swallowed. He hadn’t seen so much strife in Italy Squad since -- well, ever. Guilt at having been away made his face flush hot.

He remained standing between Mina and Melanie, directly in the middle of the room. From this vantage point, he could see almost every squad member assembled in front of him, with only minimal head turning. A tap on his arm made him look over at Melanie. She and Claire had apparently finished talking, and now she was looking directly at Andrew as she spoke.

<<i think everyone who wants to be here is here. we should get started.>>

Andrew nodded, and without waiting for any further direction, addressed the squad members assembled in the lounge: “Okay guys, we’re going to start the meeting!”

He didn’t notice that Claire had already stepped forward, ready to take charge. Nor did he notice the way she blinked, startled, when he spoke. He did, however, notice that some of the Slayers had been watching her, expecting her to lead, and only now looked back to him.

Andrew’s expression faltered for only a second. “It’s a good thing to talk about the Watcher system like this,” he said, forcing himself to smile. “Of course you guys would be worried after what happened to Xander. You all have permission to speak freely.”

There was a pause, while Andrew glanced from face to face. The squad looked hesitant. Even Francesca was biting her lip.

Finally, CJ spoke. <<well we think the watcher system needs to be updated. it was built for a very different kind of slayer. you know what i mean?>>

“Um, not exactly? Slayers still need training, and guidance.”

<<exactly,>> Natalia agreed.

But Francesca was shaking her head. <<she means that there are a lot more slayers than there used to be. but the watcher system was set up for when there was one slayer at a time.>>

“But just because there’s more Slayers doesn’t mean you don’t need training!” Andrew argued, bewildered. “Like - in X-Men! There’s hundreds of kids in Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, and Professor X teaches them all!”

He could _see_ the eye-rolls and groans ripple throughout the assembled squad.

Melanie touched his wrist. <<no comic references okay?>>

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “But it was relevant.”

<<maybe. but it still doesn’t make sense to all of us. besides,>> she added, smiling wryly. <<professor x didn’t teach them alone.>>

Mina directed him to look to Aisha, who was saying: <<and wasn’t professor x one of the most powerful x men?>>

“I-I don’t understand,” Andrew said quietly. “Are you saying that I’m not strong enough? Um. And I thought you didn’t want any more comic references?”

<<no more comic book references,>> Melanie agreed firmly. <<from any of us.>>

<<none of us are saying you’re a bad watcher,>> Claire said. <<some of the squad are just worried about the role of watchers overall.>>

<<and some of us are on your side,>> Natalia added, looking defiant.

Claire scowled. <<there aren’t any sides. we’re listening to squad concerns.>>

<<i don’t think you guys are giving andrew enough credit,>>Sophie put in. <<maybe being a watcher asks for a lot but he can do his job.>>

“Yeah, I can!” Andrew said quickly. “I swear--”

Melanie cut him off by putting a hand on his shoulder and shaking her head. <<that’s not what this is about _._ >>

<<and we’re not going to get anywhere in this discussion going on like this,>> Mina muttered.

<<you’re right,>> said Claire. <<we have to take turns so we don’t end up arguing over each other. we’ll go around the room and each person will have a turn. melanie will write your points on the sheet on the wall.>> 

“Right, good idea,” Andrew said, nodding quickly. He swung his head to the right; Ava was sitting on the edge of the group. “Ava, do you wanna start?”

Ava visibly startled and shot a panicked look at Claire.

Claire settled a hand on Andrew’s arm. <<maybe i should lead this.>>

“What?”

<<it’s nothing against you. it’s just that i think the squad will be more comfortable talking about the flaws of the watcher system to me.>>

As Andrew looked out across the assembled squad, he realized with a sinking heart that what she said was true. Natalia and Sophie and Indira were still watching him attentively, but they were in the minority. Most of the Slayers still weren’t meeting even his eyes, and Ava was fidgeting in her seat.

“Oh,” he said softly.

He let Mina lead him to taking a seat on the edge of the circle. He could still see everyone assembled, but now Claire strode into the center, an air of command around her.

<<okay ava. did you have anything you wanted to say?>>

Ava glanced nervously over at Andrew. But then she managed to look back to Claire and say: <<yeah. i think watchers have too many duties you know? and leadership should be part of everyone’s training so we can lead ourselves.>>

Andrew barely managed to not flinch. 

Claire went around the room, pointing to each individual and listening earnestly as they expressed their views. Melanie summarized each argument in short bullet points on the paper sheet, her handwriting cramping as more and more Squad members spoke up.

<<too many slayers for a single watcher to train _,_ >> argued one side of the room. <<and watchers don’t have our healing factor; they’re fragile.>>

<<slayers aren’t equipped for watcher duties,>> argued the other side. <<we can’t fill-in long term. we don’t know as much about the supernatural as watchers do.>>

<<we’re not saying we don’t need researchers,>> Francesca explained. <<but they’re at risk on the field because they can’t fight like us.>>

<<unilateral responsibility isn’t good for anyone,>> Arjun said.

<<i think andrew gets to say what he can and can’t handle,>> Indira pointed out.

At the end of the hour-long meeting, the sheet was filled with more cons than pros of the Watcher system. Andrew stared up at it, feeling somehow dwarfed by a simple sheet of paper.

<<\--do we want to do?>> Claire was saying, when Andrew looked back to the circle.

<<how about we send this to giles? if what we’re saying is true other squads could benefit too.>>

Claire nodded, accepting Mary’s suggestion. <<what does everyone else say?>>

But Natalia and Sophie both protested at almost exactly the same time, their words stacking on top of each other at the bottom of Andrew’s vision.

<<most of the squad isn’t even here,>> Natalia argued. <<isabella and caprice are on guard duty and they’re on our side.>>

<<we can’t just lodge a formal protest with less than half the squad involved,>> Sophie pointed out. <<the numbers are skewed.>>

<<what about a blind vote?>> Elizabeth suggested. <<we can leave the paper up and people can leave their votes in a box.>>

<<that’s practical,>> Mina agreed, nodding curtly. <<if majority votes yes we send it to giles. if not we keep dissent within our own ranks and work with individual worries.>>

<<saying dissent like that makes it sound so grim,>> Claire muttered. Silently, Andrew agreed.

No other protests or suggestions were forthcoming,

<<okay you all have forty eight hours to put your votes in a box that we’ll set out here. put your name and write yes or no. I will count the votes,>> Claire announced, as the assembled Slayers began to get to their feet. <<oh. and andrew has decided to keep the training schedule we have designed for the week so please continue to follow them.>>

Andrew almost didn’t catch that. He’d already scrambled up, and was backing away from the lounge.

“Sorry,” he murmured, in response to Melanie’s beguiled expression. “I have . . . important . . . Watcher thingies to do.”

It wasn’t a lie.

Andrew scurried back to his office, almost running, and slammed the door shut behind him. It didn’t bother him that his Slayers were discussing whether or not his role was superfluous - it _didn’t._ He was a thoughtful, understanding Watcher, and he could listen to his Slayers’ worries with a sympathetic ear. He wasn’t bothered. He wasn’t.

And whatever his Slayers thought of Watchers, Andrew still had his responsibilities. There was reason to believe that Warren might set his sights on Italy Squad - that the team might be at risk. And sure, there were already extra patrols and improved firewalls, but it was Andrew’s job to _ensure_ that his squad was safe.

Maybe Francesca was right: he couldn’t fight like a Slayer. Cole had argued Mina knew almost as much as Andrew about supernatural phenomenon. That was also true. Andrew didn’t even have the years of experience in leadership that Mr. Giles did.

But there was one thing that Andrew did better than anyone.

He slammed an old book the color of rust down on the desk. The cover read: _Advanced Practical Demon Summoning._

\-----

Katrina Silber wasn’t standing, or sitting. She simply _existed_ , at the center of vast lightyears stretched out around her in every direction. She turned her head, and saw stars dancing ellipses - saw the accelerating spirals of decaying orbits, the hyperboles of uncaptured comets, the hexagons of planetary ice.

She reached out a hand to a white dwarf star - ten kilometers across, but it still fit in the palm of her hand. It rested, burning, painless, on her skin. Two ice giants were still in orbit around the dead star, both swirling green and blue.

Katrina placed the tip of one finger at the pole of the white dwarf, and its rotation slowed. Simultaneously, the glow grew brighter - dazzlingly bright. Then, she rested three fingers on the top of the white dwarf, and spun it in the other direction. The glow diminished again. Katrina released the white dwarf, letting the system drift away from her. The two ice giants continued lazily circling their center as the system coasted away, caught in the pull of galactic arms and dark matter.

Katrina turned her head the other direction. There was a nebula there. She reached out her hand again, meaning to run her fingers through the wisps of interstellar dust.

But then there was a _pop_ , and an envelope was hovering in front of her, slowly rotating. Katrina frowned and picked it up.

The envelope was simple, but of a textured, high-quality paper. On the front, in neat stamped calligraphy at one corner, it read: “ _From the office of Cordelia Chase”_.

Katrina slit open the envelope, and a thick, stapled stack of papers, larger than what should have fit in the envelope, tumbled out and began to flutter slowly away through her galactic heaven. She snatched the papers back.

The top sheet on the stack was a crisp letter, written in neat, black ink, with golden details curling around the edges.

 _Dear former Sunnydale resident_ , the letter read.

_We are contacting you to inform you of events happening on Earth, and to invite you to join us in preventing total destruction. Enclosed are full details of the unfolding prophecy, known as ‘Twilight’ . . ._

Katrina flipped through the rest of the document. The other sheets were all photocopies of pages titled: “ _Wolfram and Hart Research Offices_ ”, and they detailed an armageddon prophecy: history, rumors, criteria for apocalypse-start, unfolding events, projected events, estimated casualty count (‘ _no survivors_ ’, incidentally). There were at least twenty pages, and Katrina absorbed the information as quickly as her fingers could brush the sheets.

Her eyebrows lifted. A prophecy about the destruction of their entire existence? It seemed so overdramatic and sensualized. But Katrina _had_ spent four years in Sunnydale - had seen enough unexplained disappearances and bumpy faces that _couldn’t_ be cosmetic surgery to figure that when something labelled ‘ _Sunnydale’_ talked danger, they probably meant it. And Katrina had relatives and a little sister still leading their lives back on Earth; if Sunnydale thought they were at risk, it was worth checking out.

And then her fingers brushed page eighteen. She froze, dangerously still.

There, on a list of Twilight’s known allies, was a name that made bile rise in the back of her throat: _Warren Mears_.

Well, _fuck_ that. No _fucking_ way was she letting Warren Mears burn her realm to the ground.

The last page had information for volunteers; they were supposed to meet in a hotel-based heaven for information and discussions. Immediately, Katrina tucked the stack of papers under one arm, and her pocket universe winked out. She most _certainly_ would be answering these summons.

\----

Dennis was standing on the steps of Cordelia’s hotel, craning his neck eagerly to peer at the newcomers milling about. Cordelia’s letters, accompanied by packages of Wesley’s research, had been effective. Almost minutes after the first envelopes went out, old Sunnydale residents had appeared on the sidewalk outside, some curious, some driven, some terrified. Jonathan sat on the stair beside Dennis, and he was pointing out the Sunnydale residents he recognized.

“That’s Mr. Winters,” Jonathan said, gesturing to a middle-aged man dressed primly in a button-down and tie. “He lived a few houses down from me. He disappeared in junior year; the news said something about incineration?”

“Hello, Mr. Winters,” Dennis said brightly, as the man approached the steps. “Are you here to fight the apocalypse?”

Mr. Winters looked nervous, but he nodded. “My daughters are starting college next year. I thought -- I thought them moving out of Sunnydale was supposed to prevent this kind of thing.”

Dennis nodded back sympathetically. “We’ll be happy to have you on board. If you go inside, you’ll find Doyle taking names of volunteers. Cordelia Chase will be down from her office shortly to talk to you all.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Winters said. And then -- just before he stepped forward to open the door, he glanced back to Jonathan, who was still sitting on the step. “I’m sorry to see you here.”

“Oh,” Jonathan replied. “Uh, thanks.”

It wasn’t the first time one of the Sunnydale residents had stopped to express their condolences to Jonathan, but every time, he looked just as surprised to be noticed. It seemed to lift Jonathan’s spirits; he sat up straighter, and when he pointed out the next resident, he added a little more information.

“That’s Miss Frank. She was a history teacher at my high school. A _really_ hard grader, but she was nice to you if you asked for extra help. Well, not that _I_ ever did; I just heard other kids talking about that. Anyway, she got shot by a janitor, also in my junior year.”

“Your junior year was a tough one, huh?” Dennis commented, even as he cheerfully waved Miss Frank over.

“Not unusual for Sunnydale High - hasn’t Cordy told you? Our senior year was a lot worse. Specifically, our graduation day. Speaking of which -- is that Larry Blaisdell?”

Miss Frank and Larry Blaisdell came up the sidewalk together, talking politely to one another. When they drew close, Larry broke off from his conversation to grin widely at Jonathan.

“Hey, Jonathan! You’re on this Twilight thing, too, huh?”

“Yeah,” Jonathan said. “I was one of the first to find out about it.”

“Cool! It’ll be fun to knock some heads together again, huh?”

Larry held out a fist. For a second, Jonathan blinked at it. Then, he grinned, and bumped his knuckles against Larry’s. “Yeah, for sure.”

When Larry and Miss Frank had disappeared into the hotel lobby, Jonathan glanced over at Dennis and explained: “Larry and I were a team for the graduation day battle. Which was weird, because we were on opposite ends of the social totem pole in high school, but I guess mortal danger tends to mess with normal cliques.”

“Oh. He seems nice.”

“Yeah. Now.”

Dennis had thought he’d gotten quite good at understanding the ins and outs of gossip-talk, considering how much time he’d spent listening to Cordelia blab on the phone to her old Sunnydale friends -- but sometimes, Jonathan could be even _more_ opaque when he was talking about his high school days. Before Dennis had the chance to ask what Jonathan meant, however, Jonathan had turned back to sidewalk.

And suddenly, all the color drained from Jonathan’s face.

“Jonathan--?”

Jonathan was staring down the sidewalk at another newcomer who had had just shimmered into view. It was a tall woman in her early twenties, with hair somewhere between honey blond and light brown. She had a sharp gaze that could challenge some of Cordelia’s best glares, and she held herself in such a way that suggested a barely-contained firestorm within.

When Dennis glanced back down at Jonathan, he saw that Jonathan was pale as a sheet.

“Jonathan, what is it? Who is she?”

“Katrina,” Jonathan said hoarsely. “Look, I should probably go--”

He stumbled to his feet and made to retreat to the hotel -- but Katrina had spotted him.

“ _You_!”

Fury was unmistakable in her voice. It cut into Dennis, sharp as a knife -- and her anger wasn’t even directed at him. Thunder had come down over her expression, and she strode up to Jonathan with wide paces that covered much more ground than should have been strictly possible.

Jonathan looked absolutely terrified. He was cowering, evidently ready to bolt.

“Hey,” Dennis said quickly, and he stepped between Jonathan and Katrina, ready to defend his friend. “Hey, you’re scaring him--”

But Jonathan was shaking his head. “Dennis, d-don’t.”

“ _Me_? Scaring _him_? That’s rich,” Katrina snapped. Her glare swung around to fix on Jonathan, and she spat: “What are _you_ doing here?”

“I-I-I’m working on th-the Twilight crisis. I-I, uh, was the one who h-helped Cordelia realize that there was something wrong w-with our visions, because, uh, I w-was watching over Andrew.”

Dennis had never heard Jonathan stammer so badly. His gaze helplessly swung between Jonathan and Katrina -- something was wrong, but Jonathan didn’t want him to help.

“Andrew - that your other partner in crime?” Katrina spat.

Jonathan flinched. “We’re not doing . . . that kind of thing anymore,” he muttered. “I never wanted to in the first place, I swear. A-and Andrew was mostly following Warren because he was in love with him.”

“And? News flash: I loved him too – and I sure as hell didn’t _kill_ anyone over it!”

 _Kill--?_ Dennis was staring at Jonathan, his eyes wide. “Jonathan? What’s going on?”

“He didn’t tell you, huh?” Katrina said. “I’m Katrina Silber. I’m the girl that he and his stupid friends attempted to rape and then _murdered_.”

Dennis felt as if the universe had suddenly tipped sideways. Jonathan – Cordelia’s friend, who’d become _Dennis’_ friend – a rapist? A _murderer_?

Dennis had been there when Jonathan had confessed his ‘supervillain’ past to Jenny, but the words ‘murder’ and ‘rape’ had never come up. “ _We hurt people_ ,” Jonathan had said. Not a lie, granted, but _this_. . .

Dennis stared at Jonathan, feeling too shocked to think.

“Yeah,” Jonathan said hoarsely. He met Katrina’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Katrina snorted. “Does a hell of a lot of good for me now. Look, I have no idea how you got up here, but if you’re on this ‘Twilight’ thing – fine. I’m just here to protect my sister from this prophecy, and kick Warren’s ass while I’m at it. If that means I have to work with you for a bit, whatever. But as soon as this all over, I never want to see your face again.”

Jonathan nodded glumly.

“And if your other little partner in crime ever makes it up here, the same goes for him.”

“Okay,” Jonathan murmured.

Katrina fixed him with a scorching glare a few seconds longer. Then, she swept between him and Dennis and wrenched open the hotel door before the doorman could do it for her.

Dennis was still staring at Jonathan.

“What . . . what happened?”

“What do you mean?” Jonathan muttered. “She kind of just made it pretty clear, didn’t she?”

“But the situation, I mean. How did it happen?”

“Does it matter?” Jonathan snapped.

“I don’t know. Maybe?”

But Jonathan shook his head. “You want to know what happened? Andrew and Warren and I built a cerebral dampener, and Warren hypnotized Katrina into being a sex slave and brought her home. He said we could _share_ her. The dampener wore off, but if it hadn’t---“ He sucked in a breath. “And then Warren hit her over the head with the bottle, and I helped him cover it up.”

Jonathan turned to look directly at Dennis. His expression was set – all hard lines and shadows. “That’s what I did. And I don’t know why I ever thought I could be redeemed.”

“Jonathan—“

“I should go,” Jonathan said abruptly. “You can handle greeting people alone for a bit, right?”

“Yes, but—“

Jonathan had already turned away and vanished through the door of the hotel lobby.

Dennis looked back to the sidewalk, troubled. If everything Jonathan and Katrina had said was true, then perhaps Jonathan wasn’t the person Dennis had thought he was at all. It wouldn’t be the first time that Cordelia kept dangerous company, Dennis thought anxiously. He’d always worried about that.

He was so lost in his thoughts that the next newcomer made it all the way to the foot of the steps before Dennis noticed him.

“Hello, Dennis.”

Dennis’ head jerked up. “ _Father_?”

Mr. William Pearson was standing in front of Dennis, dressed in a neat gray suit and an Ivy cap perched on his head. He had the same gentle features as Dennis and a soft smile on his lips as he looked up at his son.  “How are you?” he asked.

Dennis straightened awkwardly. “I’m well, sir.”

This was bad timing. It would be a struggle to force pleasantness while he was so worried about Jonathan and Cordelia’s friend choices.

“It’s nice to see you again,” his father said gently.

“Likewise, sir,” Dennis lied. “Uh, pardon me – but why are you here? I thought we called for Sunnydale residents only.”

 _Damn_. That was rude. But the sight of his father _had_ been a shock.

“I was born in Sunnydale,” his father replied. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you?”

“It must have slipped her mind.”

“Just as well. She’d probably have spun it somehow to make the mortality rate in Sunnydale my fault.”

“Father,” Dennis murmured lowly. “Please don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Pearson said. “I don’t mean to rile you up. But there _is_ a reason she’s in hell.”

Dennis flinched. “Father, if you’re here for the Twilight crisis, maybe you should go inside,” he said quickly. “Doyle will want to take down your registration, and Cordelia will be addressing the volunteers shortly.”

“Aren’t you coming in, too?”

“I’m on entrance duty,” Dennis replied curtly.

“Ah. Very well, then. Well, if we’re working together on this, there will be plenty of time to talk later.”

Silently, Dennis agreed. The thought made his heart sink.

Mr. Pearson climbed the steps and tipped his hat at the doorman as he slipped inside. Dennis watched him go, feeling shame warm the skin on this neck. He didn’t _hate_ his father – but being around him was uncomfortable. There was too much history, and very little of it was his father’s fault.

He should be a better son, Dennis thought glumly. But that was remarkably hard to do sometimes.

Dennis managed to wave another five volunteers through the door with a smile somehow fixed on his face. Without Jonathan, he couldn’t greet them by name, but the newcomers still seemed pleased by the warmth he put into his voice.

He had just sent in a high school-aged girl who was dressed in a floor-length floral skirt when the hotel door opened again, and Doyle stepped out.

Dennis managed a true smile. Doyle was the reason that he’d ever met Cordelia in the first place. “Hi, Doyle.”

“’Ey,” Doyle replied absently. He was looking around, frowning. “Where’s Jonathan? Cordy wants to talk to him ‘bout something with the Slayers.”

“Jonathan?” Dennis echoed. “He just went into the hotel.”

“No, he didn’t. I’ve been in the lobby the whole time, and he didn’t come in.”

“I watched him go in! There was a girl here, Katrina, and she said . . . she said he – well, he said he needed to go. And he went in.”

Dennis bit his tongue before repeating Katrina’s words. He still didn’t know how to how to wrap his mind around what she’d said, let alone convey it to Doyle -- and besides, it wasn’t his story to tell.

“I’ve seen Katrina,” Doyle said. “But no Jonathan.”

Dennis frowned. “Do you think maybe he actually left this heaven when he went through the door?”

“Sounds like it,” Doyle muttered. “Damn. Where do you think he’s gone?”

“His own heaven, maybe? He seemed pretty upset.”

“Because of what Katrina said?”

Hesitantly, Dennis nodded, but he did not elaborate.

“You think he’s okay?” Doyle asked, frowning too now.

“I don’t know,” Dennis admitted. “Do you think I should try to go find him?”  

“Probably a good idea,” Doyle replied. “I’ll get Joyce to take over door duty.” He looked worried. “What’d she say, anyway?”

But Dennis only shrugged. However confused he was about Jonathan, Dennis always held his friends’ confidences close. “I should probably get going.”

“Right. Well, good luck.”

Again, Dennis nodded. Then, he stepped down to the lawn of the hotel and shifted into Jonathan’s heaven.

The familiar forest seemed, oddly, colder than usual, as if the sunlight were weaker. Dennis peered around at the trees, trying to make sense of the person who had built this paradise. But the light filtering through the leaves, the nests built into the boughs, the shadows cast on the ground – they offered no clear answers.

“Jonathan?” he called out.

There was no reply. There wasn’t even a rustle of leaves.  

“Jonathan?” Dennis called again.

But a cold sensation was sinking into Dennis’ consciousness. Somehow, he knew this heaven was deserted - and not just in the way that its occupant had slipped out to visit another corner of paradise for a minute. The trees and moss and earth were all still there, but they were bland. In stasis. There was no soul sustaining them.

Jonathan had left heaven.


	10. Chapter 10

Andrew almost didn’t notice the office door open.

He was bent over his desk, poring through the miniscule text of _Advanced Practical Demon Summoning_ with a contemplative scowl on his face. The page on Aserioan demons was smudged with dark red-brown stains that looked suspiciously like . . . well. Point was, the stains made the text hard to read.

Andrew had read through dozens of historical accounts describing the effectiveness of Aserioan demons as bound guards. Supposedly, the Aserioans were small, pack-like creatures who could be easily persuaded to turn their territorial instincts on a particular area of the summoner’s choosing. Granted, once Aserioans were in place, even the summoner themself couldn’t get in without risking disembowelment, but Andrew felt certain he could find a loophole in the summoning ritual. An altered sigil here, a different word there -- then Italy Squad could pass safely through HQ as they always had, but any intruder would face the many-toothed wrath of a pack of Aserioans. It was just a matter of finding the right modifications.

Just like it’d been just a matter of finding the right modifications in the genetic code of extant Arachnaic demons to produce an ancient Ragna demon. That project was well underway. The motion to send Mr. Giles a list of criticisms of the Watcher system had failed by a little more than half, and Andrew didn’t have any fewer responsibilities to keep his squad safe.

He was peering at the runes scrawled across the bottom of the page when the movement of the door just barely registered in the corner of his eye. Andrew looked up, slamming the book shut.

“Mina!” he greeted her brightly. He grinned, leaning back and steepling his fingers together to affect an air of casualness.

Mina glanced at the book on his desk. Andrew scooped up _Vampyre Physiology_ from the ground and dropped it on top, hiding the cover.

 _“How can I help you?”_ he signed. The movement of his hands pulled Mina’s gaze away from the book. It also had the added effect of reminding her that he wasn’t wearing his translation glasses; he still wasn’t used to the weight on the bridge of his nose, and when he was researching alone in his office, there just didn’t seem to be any point to wearing them.

“ _We got a phone call. New mission,_ ” she signed back. “ _Recruiting._ ”

Andrew brightened immediately. Recruitment was one of his all-time favorite duties; there was nothing quite like the thrill of opening a girl’s eyes to the power within her and the destiny at her fingertips. It felt like pulling open the wardrobe door to reveal the sparkling, magical world of Narnia -- except that they were already living in it.

And okay, so maybe Slayerdom wasn’t quite _sparkling_ , but still. It was so _cool_ to tell a new Slayer of the strength in her blood, of the grand history behind her. It’d been far too long since he’d had a recruiting job.

“ _Where_?” he asked. “ _How old? Does she have parents_?”

“ _She’s in Rome.”_ Mina stepped forward and placed a map on Andrew’s desk. A point in Il Parco degli Acquedotti was circled in red, and “ _1 PM”_ was scrawled next to it. “ _Her parents called us_.”

Andrew nodded. It was almost noon now, and he’d want to get to the park a little early; sometimes new Slayers panicked and left before he even had the chance to arrive. “Do we know if she’s interested in joining or just wants information?”

Mina shook her head.

“Okay, cool. I’ll head out. Make sure the squad knows we might be getting a new member, and make space for her in the living quarters. I think there’s still a free bunk in room three, but check for me okay? I mean, we don’t know if she’ll come with us, but I’ll talk to the Slayer and her parents, and--”

Andrew broke off, a thought dawning on him.

This was the first recruiting mission he’d had in months. The first recruiting mission since . . .

“You guys, um . . . do you guys want me to lead this mission? Because, since I--” He gestured at one ear. “Talking to parents might be tough.”

Mina simply blinked. “ _Glasses?_ ” she signed, looking as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Andrew felt a rush of relief. He wasn’t being taken off recruiting missions. His squad still trusted him with this much, at least.

“Alright, I’ll go meet our new Slayer!” he said brightly. “See you in a bit!”

 

_Jonathan couldn’t be in heaven. It felt wrong, right through his very core. He needed to get out; needed to be somewhere else -- anywhere else. Hell wasn’t possible; he couldn’t open the portal on his own. But there was another dimension he could travel to, and it didn’t matter if it was dangerous to go alone, without support back in heaven, because what did it matter if he ‘lost himself’ or whatever else he’d been warned about? It wasn’t like he deserved better. Maybe it’d even bring him a sense of rest._

_And so, unanchored, Jonathan dove to earth._

 

In Il Parco degli Acquedotti, there was a strange flutter in the shadows, as if the trees above had been caught in a gust that no one could feel. It lasted for just a moment, and then everything fell still.

Andrew had arrived in the appointed park fifteen minutes to one. As he ducked under the low archway of one of the crumbling aqueducts, bringing the meeting point into view, he saw that no one had yet arrived. Perhaps a punctual Slayer, then. Or a no-show. He hoped fervently it would be the former.

Andrew made his way to the bench at the rendezvous point and sat down. He leaned back, watching the path in front of him with a keen gaze. The park sprawled, wide and open, manicured grass stretching in every direction. Andrew could see the other parkgoers from a hundred meters off. But no one approached.

Several long minutes passed.

Then, a rustle of movement snagged his attention. Not on the path in front of him, but in the corner of his gaze -- on the ground at the far end of the bench, almost tucked completely under the seat. Andrew twisted around to look properly at the source.

And gasped.

 

_Earth was still like being underwater, but unlike when he was anchored, it swept relentlessly over Jonathan, dizzyingly fast with dynamism and life. Jonathan was being pulled along, untethered, and he wasn’t sure which way was up or down, or even if there was such thing as up and down anymore._

_In the periphery of his consciousness, he felt the touch of a familiar soul. He latched on, scrabbling for something to hold him steady._

_It was Andrew. He was in a park, which was bubbling with other souls. Jonathan existed in the shadows under the trees, and everything was still rushing by almost too fast for him to make sense of anything, but now he had a focus, and the overwhelmingness of Earth was almost manageable._

_Then he noticed the second soul next to Andrew, so small that Jonathan almost missed it._

 

Andrew had lectured on the Calling of Slayers dozens of times. He knew the theory and the history, and he could rattle it all off to a confused new Slayer without missing a beat.

The thing about Slayers was that, when they were naturally called, they were all somewhere around fourteen to seventeen. Sure, every so often, you got the odd anomaly like Buffy, who somehow far outstripped the occupational life expectancy and made it well into the twenties (and in Buffy’s case, hopefully well beyond), and there was that one twelve-year-old who got called back in 1632 when she was the only Potential in a three hundred-mile radius of an opening Hellmouth (she hadn’t lasted long). But in general? Pubescent hormones were the norm.

On the other hand, you were born a Potential, and you died a Potential. So when Buffy activated all the Potentials worldwide, suddenly the age distribution of Slayers was completely thrown out of whack.

Of course, a lot of the new Slayers had chosen to carry on as usual and not join up with the Organization. That was fine; being called wasn’t the same life-changing sentence it used to be, now that there were thousands of other girls to share the burden. But the result was that the girls who did join the Organization were in their twenties more often than not – old enough to be independent, but not old enough to really know what they wanted to do with their lives. Among the recruits, they also got marginalized teenagers and a few thirty year-olds to whom life had not been kind, and there was even one sixty-two-year-old childless widow who had recently joined the squad in Mumbai. At twenty-nine, Mina was the oldest member of Italy Squad, which wasn’t quite on the same level as Mumbai Squad’s widow, but still far from the pattern of the old order.

It was a new age of Slayers, and in retrospect, Andrew thought they probably should have seen this coming.

At the foot of the bench, asleep in one of those child car seats with a handle, was a _baby_.

 

_Jonathan didn’t only exist in the shadows under the trees, he realized. He was also in the shade under the bench, the shadows cast on the sidewalk by each passerby, the mottled pattern of light between the bushes. He was part of every shadow in this corner of the park, but it didn’t feel like being stretched._

_And he was in the shadow of the woman lurking behind the cypress tree. She was peering around the trunk at the bench, and when Andrew picked up the cradle, she let out a breath._

_The woman straightened her dress, then slipped away, through the arch of an aqueduct. She didn’t look back._

 

The girl in the cradle was sleeping. She had mussed black hair and dark olive skin, and she was dressed in a ducky-pattern onesie. The girl wasn’t an infant, exactly; she looked to be at least walking age. As Andrew lifted the cradle up onto the bench next to him, he noticed a thick envelope tucked in next to her.

 _Sig. Wells_ , was written on the front of the envelope. And, underneath, there was a note, in carefully pencilled Italian.

“ _She is one of yours. We cannot keep her. We have two older children already, and she will bring them nothing but danger. Please take care of her_.”

Inside, Andrew found papers -- medical records. All identifying information had been painstakingly blacked out, but he could see that she’d had all her vaccinations, and she’d had a bout of the chicken pox when she was eight months old. He checked the date of birth. She’d been two weeks when she was Called. The nameless girl was now almost twenty months old.

Andrew stared down at her, his mouth dry. What was he supposed to do with a _baby_? His Watcher training had prepared him to teach Slayers how to go up against vampires and demons and all manners of inhuman evils -- but this girl wasn’t old enough to throw a punch, let alone pay attention in lectures.

And what kind of parents just left their baby in a park anyway?

Andrew snatched up the cradle and stared at the park around him. But there was no one watching them, no one who looked as if they might be related to the baby. Andrew hurried along the sidewalk in one direction, then the other. There were only a few other passerby, mostly joggers, and no one gave them a second look.

Andrew ended up at the entrance to the park, sweating and panting slightly. Still no potential family.

The reality began to sink in: he was alone, with a strange baby, and had no way of contacting the parents.

Andrew glanced down at the girl in the cradle. She was still asleep, but as he watched, she shifted, clenching one of her small fists and wrinkling up her nose.

He swallowed hard. Maybe his training had never covered what to do with babies, but he was still a Watcher. And if the parents were right, she was a Slayer. That meant that it was hisjob to protect her, whatever that took.

“Hey,” he said softly. “It’s gonna be okay. I’ll look after you.”

 

_Jonathan could feel Andrew’s fear and defiance and protectiveness bleeding out into the air around them. He didn’t remember if there was anything else he should be doing - if there was even anywhere else for him to exist - so he tethered himself to the familiar soul, a spot of sense in the rush of life around him, and he followed the trail of emotion as Andrew and the child made their way back to Italy Squad’s underground home._

 

Andrew burst through the entryway of Italy Squad HQ, the handle of the cradle gripped in both hands. The girl had woken up, and, finding herself in the care of a stranger, had started howling. Andrew looked pained. He might not be able to hear the cries, but he could see the way the girl’s face went all splotchy and flushed with fear and anger.

“Shh, shhh,” he murmured to her desperately.

She ignored him, squirming as she screamed.

Andrew saw movement out of the corner of his gaze, and he looked up to see Sun-ok, pale-faced, coming toward them. She had a duster in one hand, which she placed on the couch.

<<is that a baby?>>

“Uh-huh,” Andrew replied, taking one hand off the cradle to fiddle nervously with his glasses. “She, uh. She’s the Slayer we were called out to meet.”

Sun-ok looked horrified. <<she’s too young.>>

“She was two weeks old when all the Slayers were activated,” Andrew said, although he knew that wasn’t what she meant.

It was training hour for anyone not on duty, so the lounge had been mostly deserted, but the child’s crying had begun to draw the other members of the squad. Elizabeth and Daniela appeared, gaping, in the doorway to the training center, and then behind them, there was Francesca and Ava and Nita. And more were arriving, ducking under elbows and between squadmates to squeeze into the lounge, all staring, all babbling. Andrew couldn’t turn his head fast enough to look at all of them, to read what they were all saying.

Melanie rushed in from the direction of the kitchen, ushering Puteri and Maja away from blocking the hallway. She found her way to Andrew’s side and stared down at the cradle in his  grip. She tapped his arm to get his attention.

<<are you sure she’s a slayer?>> she asked. She spoke quickly, looking urgent. <<how could the parents know?>>

“I, uh. They didn’t say.” He frowned, peering around the room -- then brightened. Cole was peering around Nita and Ava’s shoulders, looking perplexed and wary.

“Cole!” Andrew called. “Come here -- we need a witch-test!”

Cole looked startled to have been singled out of all the spectators, but he obediently extracted himself from between Ava and Nita and came forward. <<what do you need?>>

“You’re, uh. You’re good with spirit. Can you check if she’s a Slayer?”

Cole stared down at the still-screaming child, looking a bit as if he were being asked to approach a hissing snake. But he sucked in a breath and reached out to rest two fingers on her forehead.

At his touch, the girl tried to twist away, visibly crying harder, but Cole managed to follow her movement.

Cole looked up. <<yeah. she’s a slayer _._ >>

 

_He could feel emotions rushing through the Slayers and Wiccans and every soul assembled -- excitement, trepidation, affection. All jumbled together. The child was still crying, and her emotions were so stark it stung him when she brushed the shadows. Fear -- confusion -- everything filtering in through his consciousness. As the Slayers crowded around, their shadows became part of him, and he spread throughout the room, a blanket, sensing, feeling._

 

<<her parents really abandoned her?>> Melanie muttered, after Andrew had related how he found the child in the park.

Andrew nodded, expression drawn. “Everything was blacked out. There’s nothing to find them by.”

<<we can’t keep her here,>> Melanie said, frowning even as she held a small stuffed rabbit out to the girl. <<it’s not safe.>>

“She’s a Slayer,” Andrew protested, but it was half-hearted. Indira was among the spectators in the lounge; her presence made it impossible to forget the hazards of Italy Squad.

The girl was now settled in Andrew’s arms, and he was helplessly trying to rock her into some semblance of calm. When Melanie offered her the rabbit that Maja had gallantly sacrificed from her own room, the girl shrank back, clutching one small fist in Andrew’s shirt. She opened her mouth to wail again.

<<we have to come up with something _,_ >> Melanie continued. <<we could call the authorities. they’ll know what to do _._ >>

“No,” Andrew said sharply. “People aren’t Slayer-positive right now. We can’t just throw her into the system without someone to protect her.”

Melanie looked like she was about to argue, but then, behind her, CJ raised her hand and put in:

<<he’s right. there have been reports coming in about independent slayers being harassed and even assaulted. simone’s activities and buffy’s incident with the vampy cat haven’t helped things. we already saw what happened with the american military.>>

There was a hard expression on her face. She didn’t have to continue. The American military, under Twilight’s influence, had already declared war on the Slayers and taken significant liberties in their struggle against the ‘terrorist threat’. If the Italian military followed suit, this child would be too close to their clutches.

<<but we have to do something,>> Melanie said. <<we can’t take care of her.>>

 

_The child’s fear and loneliness were still grating on his consciousness, pleading, begging, pleading again. She wanted her family, but when she cried out for her mother, her father, her brothers, the only ones who answered were these strangers, with a strange language on their lips and toys that weren’t hers. She was calling, desperate, for anyone who might understand._

_He felt all of it, and he slipped through the shadows toward her. Children were as strange to him as everything was feeling to her right now, but he knew fear, he knew loneliness. And, purposeless on his own, he found himself answering her plea._

_He settled his consciousness around her. Not her family, no. But not leaving her alone either. Strangers stared at her and reached out with large hands, gentle but unfamiliar, bewildering and overwhelming. But now there was another soul beside her, comforting her in a way the strangers could not._

 

<<i have an idea,>> said Isabella, bright-eyed and enthusiastic, as the child’s screams finally began to subside.

Andrew continued rocking the girl, relieved she was finally quieting. He’d thought being deaf might have made dealing with her crying easier, but the way she scrunched up her face and squirmed in his arms tugged relentlessly at his heartstrings.

“What?” he asked Isabella.

<<i have a cousin in florence,>> she said. <<he works with orphans and he is a foster parent. maybe he can take care of her or at the very least keep an eye on her case. he knows about slayers and is on our side.>>

“Florence?” Andrew echoed. That . . . wasn’t too far. A day’s journey, sure, but he’d travelled further for single meetings with Slayer Organization’s heads. If something went wrong, the Squad could be there in a handful of hours. He patted the girl’s hair absently, considering.

<<it’s a good idea,>> Melanie said.

Andrew nodded. “When can you contact him?”

<<i can do it now,>> Isabella replied.  

“Do it.”

 

_The girl settled in the shadow of Andrew’s figure. Mama, she whimpered. Mama._

 

<<my cousin can take her tomorrow if you can go to florence,>> Isabella announced, a few minutes later.

Andrew and the child had migrated to the office, as per Melanie’s suggestion, and most of the rest of the squad had been shooed off. Besides Andrew and the girl, who were both by the desk, only Melanie and Isabella had come into the office. The smaller crowd of strange faces seemed to have let the girl calm down, but she was still scowling warily around the room from her spot on Andrew’s lap.

“I’ll take a train,” Andrew replied. “There’s one that leaves at eight tomorrow, right?”

Isabella nodded.

<<if you’re going to take a three hour train ride with her you’ll need supplies,>> Melanie said. <<and a crash course on childcare.>>

“I’ll take Alexis with us. She, uh. She said she ran a babysitting business before she was Called.”

<<good idea. i’ll let her know _._ >>

Melanie shot Andrew an encouraging look as she left the office.

Isabella had crouched down in front of the girl so that she was on eye level with her. She held out a finger, which the girl glared at.

<<what is her name?>> Isabella asked, apparently unperturbed by the scowl.

Andrew shook his head. “Everything was blacked out. I don’t know.”

To the child, Isabella asked: <<come ti chiami?>>

The girl just scrunched up her face and did not reply.

 

_He’d settled himself into the shadows around the girl, watching, existing, and he sensed everything rushing around them, but he barely registered any of it. There would be moving tomorrow, and he would move too, because he’d found a duty a singular assignment and he hardly remembered anything else existed_

 

“She needs a name,” Andrew said, looking down at the girl who had dozed off fitfully in his lap. She’d still ignored every attempt to get a few words out of her. Perhaps she didn’t understand; perhaps she was just too uneasy in her new environment to speak. Andrew had even tried a few Italian signs, but she’d stared blankly in reply.

Isabella blinked, surprised. <<she will be leaving tomorrow.>>

“We can’t just call her ‘the baby’ until then, can we?”

<<what name are you thinking?>>

Andrew pondered this for a moment.

“Joanna Jean Skywalker,” he announced.

 

_He felt the girl stir and then she was staring right at him_

_He was still shadow nothing more and so she was staring into the corner of the room but somehow he knew she was looking directly into him_

_She wasn’t frightened anymore_

 

“Skywalker’s just the coolest last name ever,” Andrew explained cheerfully. “And Jean for Jean Grey and Gene Roddenberry - both visionaries!”

<<joanna?>> Isabella inquired.

“That’s, uh. For a friend. It’s a name for bravery and resistance against evil influences. And we can call her JJ for short! It’s even quick to fingerspell!” To emphasize, he quickly signed _J-J_.

If JJ objected to her new name, she made no show of it.

\-----

Around twenty-four hours later, Andrew was passing off a squalling JJ at the entryway of the house of Isabella’s cousin.

The man in the door was gentle-faced and calm, even as he struggled to wrap his arms around JJ, who was reaching back for Andrew. Andrew was the closest thing she had to a familiar face, and she screamed to be handed away again.

“Shh, shh, _bambina_ ,” Andrew said to JJ, crouching down a little so she could see him. His voice cracked a little, but he continued in gentle Italian: “You’ll be alright. This nice social worker will take care of you, okay? And you’ll always be Italy Squad.”

<<i’ll make sure she’s safe,>> said Isabella’s cousin, and Andrew’s glasses transcribed the Italian as easily as they did English.

Andrew nodded at that, but he sniffled, and wiped hard at red eyes under his glasses.

A cloud passed in front of the afternoon sun. The entryway was cast in shade.

 

_still there latched onto the child JJ she was called now she was scared again lonely again he had a purpose_

 

JJ’s thrashing slowed as shadow blanketed them, but she continued wailing, her face red.

“Um. You might not want to hold her next time she fights like that, by the way,” Andrew said, glancing up at Isabella’s cousin. “Slayer strength.” He held up an arm, where a nasty, purple bruise stretched across the skin.

Isabella’s cousin took this in with a startled expression, but he nodded.

Alexis, who did not speak Italian, handed the envelope of JJ’s medical records to Isabella. Isabella passed them on to her cousin, babbling in rapid Italian: <<this is everything we know about her. we’ve been calling her joanna jean. jj. she might have another name though so maybe you should keep asking her.>>

Andrew picked up the small duffel laid at their feet. “And this is all the supplies we gathered for her -- there’s food and diapers and some toys. Oh, and this--” He unzipped a side compartment and pulled out an action figure. “1979 mint-condition Boba Fett. I know she’s too little to play with it, but it belonged to her namesake, so maybe you can hold onto it for her?”

There was a moment, as he passed it over, that he looked down at the action figure with a pained reluctance. But then he forced a smile, and relinquished his grip on the toy.

 

_he was watching it was familiar he knew that figure it -- his_

 

Isabella’s cousin took everything with a solemn calm, promising again and again to keep JJ safe. <<you can come visit whenever you like as long as she’s with me,>> he said. Andrew nodded and swore he would.

The shadows darkened as dark grey sections of cloud drifted across the sun. And then, a wind picked up.

 

_there was something grabbing hold and he fought but it gripped him and dragged him and he twisted his purpose his duty was here he was nothing but this job but the new force was pulling pulling_

 

The cloud passed by the sun. Sunlight suddenly bathed the entryway, making Andrew and the Slayers blink. The wind died down again.

“Thank you,” Andrew said fervently to Isabella’s cousin, who was patting JJ’s hair.

He nodded. <<she’ll be okay _._ >>

And as Andrew turned away, back toward the train station, he felt his eyes burning.

\----

If being wrenched back to heaven the first time had been difficult, it was _nothing_ to how Jonathan felt now.

Earth fell away, and he was left cold and shaking, and he felt like he might faint or even fade out of existence entirely. He was on all fours, gasping, and the skin on his arms looked oddly blurry; he was having trouble holding his form. Dimly, he recognized the moss and dirt under his hands, registered that someone was talking, but he couldn’t focus well enough to make out what they were saying.

Something grabbed at the back of his shirt, and then he was being hauled to his feet. Cordelia. He recognized her face in front of him -- thin-lipped and furious. Dennis was hovering behind her, looking frightened.

“What were you _thinking_?” Cordelia snapped, roughly knocking his shoulders with open palms. Jonathan wasn’t sure if she was trying to hit him or brush him off, but it was somewhere between the two. “Earth?! Without an anchor?! I haven’t seen a soul so far gone since I had to drag _Dennis_ up here!”

Jonathan opened his mouth and closed it a few times. Words felt far away. “I--”

“You are _so lucky_ I was here. If you didn’t have a higher power watching your ass, you would have been stuck down there god knows how long!”

“I’m . . . sorry,” he finally managed to murmur. “I just needed to get away.”

“Yeah, Dennis told me about your little run-in with Katrina Silber. That _still_ doesn’t explain what the hell you were thinking diving to Earth!”

“I . . .” He could still feel his skin crawling at the sudden return to heaven, almost as bad as the time he and Dennis had visited hell. It made thinking difficult. “I messed up. I can’t fix it. I couldn’t . . .”

“And you think redemption is all about you?” Cordelia snapped. “It’s about how you treat people _now_ , and that means not running out on your friends and leaving them to drag you back out of some suicidal Earth run! I swear, you’re as bad as Angel!”

Dennis stepped up, nervously licking his lips. “I, uh. Don’t know about fixing anything, but I . . . my mother . . .  well, all I know is I’m not the best person either.”

“Dennis,” Cordelia started warningly, but Dennis did not look at her.

“If I could take it all back, I would,” Jonathan murmured. “I was stupid -- I didn’t know. I would never . . .”

Dennis held his gaze. “I don’t know if that makes much better. But if you’re trying to make right now, I . . . think we all would want to help.”

Wordless, Jonathan met his gaze. Dennis offered him a small smile. It didn’t quite meet his eyes, but it was a start.

“I’m glad Cordy was able to find you,” Dennis said quietly.

“Thanks,” Jonathan muttered. He was still shaky, and the memory of meeting Katrina made him feel a sick to his stomach. But Dennis . . . Dennis still thought he was worth being around. And so did Cordelia.

He knew that didn’t fix much, but he felt small. Humbled.

“I hope you enjoyed your little trip to Earth,” Cordelia said irritably. “But if you’ve got both feet firmly in heaven now, we better get back to the hotel. I have a small crowd of confused Sunnydale common souls to deal with.”  

And Jonathan was still feeling weak and a little dizzy, but as his thoughts turned to Earth, a small smile came unbidden over his lips.

“What are you grinning about?” Cordelia asked suspiciously.

“Nothing,” he said, still smiling. He ran a hand over one side of his face, and let out a breath of startled laughter. “Just . . . Andrew named a _baby_ after me.”


	11. Chapter 11

In the office of Italy Squad HQ, there was a new article on Andrew’s desk: a coiled Chinese dragon, eight inches tall and made of unpolished bronze. It was perched on the edge of the surface and glared at anyone who stood in front of it. In its open jaws, a crystal sphere roughly the size of a golfball sat between the teeth.

“ _What is that_?” signed Claire, the first time she’d seen it when she came in to discuss that week’s training duties.

“ _It monitors demon activity_ ,” Andrew had replied. He did not elaborate further.

For almost two weeks, the dragon just sat there, glaring and collecting a light layer of dust. But at four-thirty A.M. one morning, Andrew wandered into the office, yawning and rubbing his face. It was ungodly early, yes, but morning training started in barely an hour and a half, and after that, Andrew had a full day of lectures lined up. If he wanted to get any work done on the Aserioan demon problem, he had to get started before the rest of the Squad rolled out of their beds.

He stretched, his arm brushing against his mussed hair. When his eyes fluttered open again, his gaze fell on his desk. And he froze.

The dragon’s jaw was empty.

He stared wildly around the room -- and there was the crystal sphere, on the ground, tucked up against a stack of books behind the desk. He hurried over and scooped it up. As his fingers curled around the cool surface, his mind was racing, calculating hours. He’d gotten to bed around midnight, and the jewel had still been in the dragon’s mouth then. At most, the jewel must have fallen four and a half hours ago.

Ragnas kept their prey alive for thirty-six hours. Andrew had thirty one and a half hours to cut free whatever unwitting soul had wandered into its trap.

He rubbed a thumb against the cold crystal, and murmured a few unintelligible syllables. The crystal began to glow.

Lifting the sphere to his eye level, Andrew peered into the crystal’s depths. An image had formed: a girl, with curly dark hair, struggling in a rose-pink sphere, several feet above a web of iron and steel. The image revolved, bringing her face into view.

“Nisha,” Andrew breathed.  

By the time the rest of the Squad woke, an hour and a half later, there was a note tacked to the refrigerator door.

_Going to Scotland. Watcher duty calls. Claire is in charge. Will be back tomorrow._

(There was a smiley face sticker pressed at the bottom of the note.)

\----

<<you didn’t want your squad to come?>> Buffy asked, as they fastened their seatbelts on board the jet that was readied to fly them to Milan. Andrew had tracked Nisha there; he reported that they now had twenty-three hours to get her free.

Andrew shook his head. “Too much hostility in the crowd. If we want to have any chance of bringing Simone and Nisha back to the light, we’re going to want to keep the betrayal accusations to a minimum. Luke didn’t convince Vader to give himself back to the Jedi by _glaring_ at him.”

<<you really think you can get them to come back?>> She looked surprised, but not overtly dubious.

“I _have_ to. They were my responsibility.”

<<hey no one blames you. you weren’t the first person who couldn’t rein simone in. she’s a loose canon. it’s too bad she got to nisha too but still not your fault.>>

“Yeah, I know you guys think that. But I gotta believe in them, if there’s any value in redemption quests.”

Buffy watched him quietly for a moment, her expression betraying nothing. Then, she nodded.

“Anyway, the Ragna’s already isolated Nisha, and Simone’s so _not_ a team player, so we shouldn’t be going up against their band of rogues anyway. No backup needed.”

<<good.>>

\----

Giles, however, disagreed with Andrew’s assessment.

“Excuse me, but Buffy is _where_?” he demanded.

Giles had called to inform Buffy of a runaway Slayer that he and Faith were tracking (name of Courtney; she’d fled the trainee Barcelona Squad two weeks ago). But when Scotland HQ had picked up, it’d been Xander’s voice that answered.

“She’s not here. She and Andrew got a lead on Simone Doffler; the two of them went after her.”

“When you say ‘the two of them’ . . . ?”

“Um. Andrew and Buffy. Went after Simone.”

“Backup?”

“No. Andrew seemed pretty confident it would be a straightforward recovery mission.”

Giles sighed, drawing a hand across his face. “The _two_ of them? You do realize that the most recent reports of Simone Doffler’s activities have described her as working with approximately _sixteen_ other rogue and unapologetically _vicious_ Slayers?”

“. . . Right. Um.”

“I am not surprised that Andrew would underestimate Simone - although I _am_ disappointed. But I would have expected you and Buffy to be a little more cautious!”

“Sorry,” Xander muttered. “We just . . . we’ve been a bit buried in the fallout from the vampy cat incident. I think Buffy has been really craving a single-Slayer mission for a while.”

“That is still no excuse to put yourselves at risk!”

“Right,” Xander said. He had the decency to sound properly chagrinned, at least. “I’ll send someone after them.”

“I’ll do it,” Giles replied quickly. It wasn’t that he distrusted Xander, but hearing confirmation with his own ears that Andrew’s Slayers were on their way would set his mind at ease.

“Okay. Uh, sorry, again.”

“Let’s just hope the Italian Slayers can get there in time. And I’ll implore you _all_ to be less hasty next time!”

“Roger that,” Xander muttered.

\----

A little outside of Milan, the sun was setting as Andrew pulled up off the road and turned off the ignition of their borrowed car.

“The readings I had said she was this way,” Andrew announced, unbuckling his seatbelt and stepping out.

Buffy followed, peering into the ominous gloom of the forest Andrew had pulled up next to. At this hour, the shadows were stretched, seeming to reach out to her with clawed branches. Creepy. It was kind of nostalgic, really.

“By the way,” Andrew added. “Nisha and Simone don’t know about my glasses. I think we should keep it that way. How’s your ASL?”

Buffy signed “ _understood”_ by way of response. It was good thinking; if Nisha and Simone didn’t understand the importance of Andrew’s glasses, the glasses wouldn’t become a target.

Andrew led the way through the forest, periodically checking his handheld GPS to keep them on track. The brambles and foliage crunched underfoot; Buffy twitched at each snap. They hadn’t seen any sign of hostile forces yet, but she didn’t want to draw attention to themselves. But as she swivelled her head about, searching the shadows for movement, Buffy saw nothing.

“The lair should be around here,” Andrew muttered, after about ten minutes of hiking. He still had his gaze fixed on the GPS. “We ought to be seeing it any second.”

Buffy pushed aside a low-hanging branch. “. . . Ah.”

Towering above them was a tangled jungle-gym of metal pipes, bent and squashed together like some strange Frankenstein plumbing job. The structure rose fifteen, twenty feet in the air, and at the very peak, there floated a translucent pink bubble through which Buffy could make out the figure of one of Andrew’s wayward Slayers.

Startled by Buffy’s sudden halt, Andrew looked up from his GPS.

“Oh. Yeah, that would be the Ragna’s version of a web. Iron, steel. And the snare up top to trap and suspend her prey.”

Buffy made a face at that. The word ‘prey’ used in relation to humans always made her feel a bit icky. Through the translucent surface of the bubble, Buffy could see Nisha struggling helplessly against whatever forces were holding her.

“ _Go up_ ,” she signed.

Buffy put her hands on a low pipe and hauled herself up. After tucking his GPS back in his pocket, Andrew followed.

“Took you long enough,” Nisha spat, as they approached her level. She kept tugging at the magical bonds, which were here holding her spread-eagle in the bubble. “As soon as I’m free, I’m gonna get my foot in your ass, you tiny--”

“Not a clue what you’re saying,” Andrew interrupted brightly. But Buffy could read the tightness in his expression. He was reading the translation of the glasses, and it wounded him to see the anger on the tongue of his own Slayer.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Nisha retorted. “Once my hands are loose, I’ll have a few _signs_ for you.”

“Hey!” Buffy said sharply. “A little gratitude would not be  out of order! If not for Andrew being on top of things and monitoring the demon situation, you get eaten. It’s not _our_ fault you fell into a -- what -- a Manga trap or whatever.”

Nisha turned her head to fix Buffy with a cold stare. “Please. You seriously believe that? I know Andrew never thought of me as his best student, but I do remember _that_ lecture. Ragnas died out in the eleventh century. Why would Andrew bother monitoring the activity of a demon species that went extinct almost a millennium ago, unless he was somehow _certain_ it was back?”

Buffy froze. Was Nisha saying--? She stared down at Andrew. He was staring resolutely ahead, but the tips of his ears were a tell-tale red.

“Andrew!” Buffy grabbed his shoulder, wrenching him around to look at her. Furiously, she signed: “ _Is this true_? _This_ \--” She gestured helplessly at the web of piping around them. “ _Your work?_ ”

Andrew visibly swallowed. “Um.”

“Chew him out later,” Nisha interrupted. “It’s coming back.”

“Huh?” Buffy turned, following Nisha’s gaze. “ _Oh_.”

An enormous spider, at least six feet long, was crawling toward the base of the web. Its body was jet black, except for the ominous red pattern on its back, as red as a black widow’s mark, but splattered like blood. Its enormous pincers clicked as it moved. As red eyes turned on Buffy, she suppressed a shudder of revulsion. Why could demons never look _pretty_?

“Right,” Buffy said, suddenly firm. She grabbed Andrew’s shoulder again and pushed him toward the bubble. She jabbed a thumb at Nisha. “ _Her. Out_.”

Andrew reached inside his sweatshirt. There was a click; the bubble vanished. Nisha grunted as she collapsed on a steel sheet below her.

“So . . . I’m thinking, does it matter _how_ we got Nisha in custody?” Andrew said, with an air of affected casualness. “We got her; let’s just get her back to headquarters.”

Buffy groaned. Her head swung, looking from Nisha to Andrew to the still-approaching Ragna. This was _not the time_ to be arguing dos and donts of demon summoning. “ _Not now_ ,” she signed, and reached down to grab Nisha’s arm.

But before she could get a hand around, a blow to the side of her head sent her reeling.

Buffy gasped, stars exploding in front of her eyes. She heard another _thwack,_ and Andrew yelped in pain. Dizzy, bewildered, and furious, Buffy clutched her spinning head in one hand and and forced herself up.

Simone.

Her face was contorted into a leer, and her ridiculous wisp of hot pink hair clashed horribly with her crimson jacket. The jacket itself was extravagantly embroidered with gold across the cuffs and chest, designed like some 18th century admiral’s coat. It was all so absurdly pretentious that Buffy wanted to laugh. Just as soon as her ears stopped ringing.

“You all right, Nish?” Simone lilted. “We got here as soon as we tracked you.”

 _We?_ Buffy stiffened.

Nisha was slowly staggering to her feet. “Fine. Bit of a head rush. Been upside down for eighteen hours.”

Simone nodded. She glanced at Buffy. “And you -- not nice. Capturing one of my girls? _Tsk_. Luckily, I got a real skilled Wiccan who was strong enough to beam one person right here to the signal.” She shot a sneer in Andrew’s direction. “Too bad you couldn’t hear that, Andrew. You’d’ve been proud -- look at me, making Stargate references!”

Andrew’s glasses had gone skittering across the steel platform when Simone hit him, but he had managed to shove them back onto his face in time to read her words. To his credit, he managed to keep his expression blankly puzzled, although Buffy noticed one of his hands curl at what even _she_ knew was a geek misattribution.

But Simone had let one thing slip: she was alone. The Wiccan had ‘beamed’ _one person_ in. Sure, counting the Ragna, that still made Buffy and Andrew outnumbered by hostiles -- but they didn’t have to run for the hills just yet.

“Nice entrance,” Buffy remarked dryly. “Look, Slappy -- fight’s over. Come back with us before that spider thing gets up here. We can sort out whatever’s--”

Simone let out a bark of laughter. “Come _back_?! Haven’t you heard? We’re the bad guys now. People think vamps are cool and Slayers are the threat.”

Ah, well. Buffy hadn’t really expected polite conversation to work, but she’d made an effort. She slipped into a defensive stance, her hands coming up from her sides.

“The difference between you and me?” Simone continued. “I _am_ a threat.”

She was reaching behind her; Buffy caught the glimpse of a black, L-shaped handle --

 _Gun_.

“Come on, Simone! You really think a gun is the way to deal with me?” Buffy’s hands curled into fists, but she was cold with a furious kind of fear. Two rogue Slayers, she could handle. An enormous spider demon, built by one of her best friends, she could also handle. But there was only so much she could do against a bullet. _Guns_ had almost gotten her once before.

But Simone lifted an eyebrow. “What? This? Please, I’m not here to shoot you,” she retorted. “And if I was, I’d use a real gun, not one of these toys. Guns I like. But this? This isn’t for you.”

Simone spun on the spot, and aimed -- right at the Ragna.

“This is for her.”

She pulled the trigger, and golden lightning arched from the barrel of the weapon. The Ragna jerked as the energy hit its body, enveloping it in magically-enhanced electric shock -- it let out an inhuman squeal and collapsed, barely six feet from the tips of Simone’s boots.

Simone grinned, cocking her weapon and hauling Nisha properly upright. “Need her calm so I can take her with us,” she said, tilting her head toward the unconscious demon. “See ya, bitches.”

And the three of them vanished, in a puff of orange smoke and a whiff of ozone.

“ _Crap_ ,” Buffy hissed.

“If Simone has the Ragna, she might use her against civilians,” Andrew mumbled. He looked pale, and wouldn’t quite meet her eyes.

But Buffy needed him to look at her so she could get some _answers_. Again, she grabbed his shoulder and wrenched him around. “What were you thinking?!” she demanded. “You created a man-eating demon just to get at Simone?”

“I had to!” Andrew protested. “I didn’t want to kill Simone, just catch her. I didn’t have many options, so I did what I could!”

“You could have come to me, or Xander, or Willow!”

“No! Simone left because of _me_. I had to fix it myself.”

“That wasn’t your fault!” Buffy argued. “And you can’t just summon demons like that -- now instead of just having a team of rogues wandering the countryside, we have a team of rogues wandering the countryside with a man-eating spider demon!”

Andrew flinched. “I don’t understand,” he mumbled. “I thought that last time I summoned a demon to fulfill my Watcher duties, you all thought I did a good thing. Right?”

Buffy heaved a breath, feeling weariness come over her like a heavy blanket.

“Last time, you didn’t put civilians at risk,” she replied finally. “And last time, you didn’t have a better option to protect your Slayer.”

“I didn’t have a better option this time either!”

“Yes, you did!” she snapped. “You could have come to any of us for help, but you didn’t, because of _pride_.”  

“I--”

“Look,” Buffy interrupted. “Now’s probably not the time to discuss this. We have a demon in the hands of a violent Slayer squad, and the longer we wait, the longer they have to get away. Let’s deal with _that_ first. Can you track the Ragna?”

Andrew looked for a moment like he wanted to argue. But, eventually, he swallowed, and fished his GPS out of his pocket. “Uh-huh,” he said, fiddling with the controls. “I equipped the Ragna with some genetic modifications -- radioactive isotopes. According to this, she’s on an island off the coast.”

Buffy nodded stiffly. “Good. Let’s get going.”

\----

Andrew felt awful. Every time he looked at Buffy and saw the hardness in her face, his stomach twisted, and he felt kind of sick. He wished desperately he could turn the clock back a few hours, to when she was smiling and laughing with him, bonding over Daniel Craig and Pierce Brosnan. But Buffy hardly wanted to look at him now. She was staring out over the side of the boat as they sped toward the island, and the expression on her face was almost haunted. There would be no gossiping about James Bond’s swim trunks now.

Andrew had thought that being with the good guys would have meant not having to feel this way. But here he was, fighting on the side of light, and it seemed he still ended up with a stomach all twisted up with guilt more often than not.

“Almost there,” he said aloud, hoping he’d managed to force some cheer into his voice.

Buffy looked up. Unsmiling, she nodded.

Andrew swallowed, and turned back toward the bow of the boat.

They were drawing close to the island. Andrew killed the motor and let the boat coast in to the dock; when the boat was a foot away, he jumped off, line in hand. He wrapped the line around the cleats on the dock.

By the time he straightened, Buffy had clambered off the boat as well. She was staring out, blank-faced, at the ruins of the village spread before them.

The island had clearly been ransacked and deserted. Every window they could see had been smashed in, and broken glass and debris littered the streets. Graffiti had been spraypainted on the walls: ‘Reign of Slayers’ and ‘lawless’, in stark red. There were no signs of life -- no people, no open stores, no movement at all.

Nervously, Andrew stepped up to stand next to Buffy. “I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

She glanced back at him. <<you didn’t do this.>>

“Simone and Nisha were my Slayers. I should have . . .”

But Buffy was shaking her head, staring out at the street again. <<andrew. stop.>>

“I mean it! They were my responsibility, and--!”

<<andrew. pay attention.>>

“Huh?”

Andrew followed her gaze. Behind one of the piles of rubble in the street, there was a flutter of movement. Andrew sensed Buffy’s stance stiffen, and he took an instinctive step back.

From behind the rubble, stepped out a small girl, approximately eight years old. Her dress was tattered and burned in places, and there was dirt smudged all across her face, but she walked straight up to Andrew and Buffy with bold strides.

<<non dovresti essere qui.>>

Buffy looked startled, but her pose relaxed. <<what did she say?>> she asked Andrew.

“She says we’re not supposed to be here.”

Buffy frowned. <<what does she mean?>>

Andrew bent down so he was on eye level with the girl. “Why shouldn’t we be here?” he asked, in Italian.

<<the angry woman said so. she hurts anyone who doesn’t listen.>>

Andrew translated her response to Buffy, and Buffy’s lips thinned

<<simone,>> she muttered darkly. <<ask her where everyone is.>>

When Andrew conveyed the question, the girl replied.

<<the angry woman said everyone had to leave because the island is hers now. the other villagers went to the mainland. it’s just me and grandma now. we stay on the docks so we don’t have to go into the town.>>

Andrew’s tongue stumbled as he repeated the girl’s words to Buffy. Shame heated his face; _this_ was what his Slayers had done. This was what his failure had caused: a ghost town, this homeless child, a full island of destruction.

Buffy listened. When she spoke this time, she addressed the child directly. <<we’re going to talk to the angry woman. she can’t just take your home. we’re going to explain that to her.>> To Andrew, she said: <<come on. where’s the spider?>>

Andrew hastily translated Buffy’s promise to the child, then scrambled up again, GPS in hand. “Um, this way.”

The girl watched them go, her expression unchanging. Andrew couldn’t tell if she believed them or not, and there was a tiredness in her young face that made him uneasy. He glanced back a few times, but the girl didn’t move. She just stood there, small and dirty and alone.

Finally, they rounded a corner, and the girl was out of sight.

The Ragna’s signature led them through winding, broken streets, toward the heart of the village. The buildings here were clustered closer together, and thus, so was the damage. Buffy and Andrew’s pace slowed as they clambered over piles of debris, but slowly, they drew closer to the blinking dot on Andrew’s GPS.

Then they were standing in front an old opera house, and the dot indicated that the Ragna was inside.

Andrew swallowed, looking up at the building in front of them. Like every other structure in the town, the opera house had been abandoned by its original owners, and was now standing in disarray. The windows were all shuttered, but half the shutters were hanging off their hinges; paint had been sprayed over almost every square inch of wall within reaching distance. A tattered banner hung from the second floor balcony, too smudged and soot-streaked to make anything out. As was typical of evil lairs, it was pretty uninviting.

 _“Here_ ,” he signed to Buffy. Pocketing his GPS, he reached out to push open the door.

But then Buffy’s hand was on his, stilling him. She shook her head.

Andrew frowned, and dropped his hand. “ _What_?”

<<if simone has her whole team there we’re outnumbered,>> Buffy replied, her lips barely moving. <<it’d be stupid to walk through the front door.>>

“ _What do we do_?” Andrew asked.

Buffy paused, her gaze raking over the face of the opera house. “ _Come here_ ,” she signed.

Andrew hurried after Buffy as she moved around to the side of the building. Here, the shutter on a ground-floor window was hanging askew, revealing a gap where all the glass had been smashed out. Buffy stepped up to the side of the window and twisted around to peer into the opera house. For a moment, she was still, only her gaze flickering from side to side as she watched and listened for movement.

Then, she gestured Andrew forward. “ _You first_.”

He swallowed, but nodded.

Buffy boosted Andrew up, and he scrambled through the empty window. His palm caught on the edge of broken glass, and he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out.

But then he was standing in a dusty, empty hall of the opera house. Buffy climbed in after him and landed lightly.

She swung her head in both directions, deciding.

“ _This way_.”

Andrew followed after her, now sucking on the stinging heel of his palm.

Buffy led the way through winding halls, each one just as deserted as the last. At each corner, she would pause to peer around the edge before venturing forth, and every so often, she would glance back and gesture at Andrew to step a little more quietly.

But as they passed through empty hallway after empty hallway, those gestures became fewer and further in between.

Finally, Buffy stepped back and touched Andrew’s shoulder. When he looked at her, she murmured: <<no guards. but she must have her muscle here.>>

Taking care to lower his voice to nothing more than a breath, Andrew whispered back: “Simone must have them gathered together for maximum firepower.”

Buffy had to lean closer to make out his words; he had whispered even more quietly than he’d intended. But she must have managed to at least catch the gist of what he was saying, because she replied: <<must all be around the giant spider.>>

Andrew nodded.

<<we’ll have to scatter them. we need to get at that demon.>>

“ _Do you have an idea_?” he asked, switching back to signing.

<<we’re talking about rogues. they’re not disciplined. if they think they’re in danger, they’ll bail.>>

“What if we upset the Ragna?” Andrew hissed back. “She hates smoke. If we set a small fire, not enough to really damage anything, but enough that she can smell it, she’ll get _really_ agitated. And, uh, Ragnas are kinda scary when they’re upset.”

<<and what do you call them when they’re not upset? cuddly?>> Buffy retorted, but a small smile was flickering about the corner of her lips. She continued: <<that plan could work.>>

\----

“Where _are_ they?”

The whine rose from one of the Slayers lounging out in the red-velvet seats of the opera’s theater. It was one of the new girls -- Simone couldn’t remember her name.

“Shut it!” Simone snapped. “They’ll be here.”

The girl -- Simone was calling her “Bottle Blonde” in her head -- scowled. “But what if they don’t? And how long are we gonna wait here? We don’t even have any lookouts.”

Simone’s glare hardened.

“What, you wanna go out there alone and _keep an eye_ _out_? You think that will beat Buffy? Buffy may be too stupid to see how she’s holding herself back with all her old-fashioned morals about guns and power, but she’s still a whole lot tougher than any one of you. We split up, and she’ll pick each of you off as easily as staking a lowly vampface. That what you want?”

Bottle Blonde said nothing.

“That’s what I thought,” Simone sneered. “Anyone else have any complaints about how things are run around here?”

No one replied.

Simone lifted her eyebrows, and leaned back in the tall throne-like chair they’d found hidden away in the opera house’s prop room. “Good.”

Bottle Blonde looked away, busying herself in turning a shotgun over in her hands.

Inwardly, though, even Simone hoped Buffy and Andrew would show soon. It was kind of claustrophobic, having her whole gang cooped up here -- and the caged giant spider in the room put everyone’s nerves on edge. Her fists were itching for a good fight, and if Andrew and Buffy didn’t make their grand entrance soon, it was gonna be one of her dissenters who got the black eye.

An acrid scent tickled her nose.

At first, Simone thought nothing of it. Smoke had hung in the air for days after they took over this island; burning rubble had become almost a comforting scent, a little taste of victory. The fact that all fires had been put out days ago and that a recent rainstorm had washed away the last of the fire smells did not cross her mind.

But then the cage behind her rattled.

Simone turned sharply; the Ragna demon, which until that point had been lying on its side with its spindly appendages all curled up against its belly, had clambered upright. Its pincers were clacking together menacingly, and its eyes were gleaming a dull, angry red. It still seemed shaky on its feet from the sedation; its long legs were trembling as if the earth beneath it were shaking. But that didn’t stop the demon from launching its entire body at the bars of the cage.

The clattering that resulted was cacophonous. The bars resonated like bells in the acoustics of the opera theater, and girls throughout the room scrambled to their feet, crying out in shock.

“Hey -- _hey_!” Simone snapped, her voice like a whip. “Chill! Our new pet’s just a little restless. That cage is solid steel.”

But Nisha’s face had gone pale. “Simone,” she said lowly. “Didn’t . . . didn’t that thing make _webs_ out of steel?”

“. . . Oh, _fuck_.”

A strident screech rent the air. Simone and Nisha both flinched at the sound. The Ragna had cut through several of its bars with its massive pincers, and now it reared back, ready to throw its body against the side of the cage again.

Several Slayers stepped back, cocking their weapons.

“Don’t shoot!” Simone barked. “We want that thing alive!”

But then the body of the Ragna crashed back down against the side of its cage, and the bars shattered.

Bottle Blonde fired first. She pointed her shotgun directly at the Ragna’s head as it thrashed, and pulled the trigger. The Ragna squealed -- an unearthly, hair-raising shriek that made half the Slayers present visibly shudder. But it didn’t go down.

It swung its head around, hissing, and advanced on Bottle Blonde.

Two other Slayers opened fire on the demon, firing bullet after bullet into its enormous abdomen. They had almost no effect. Most bullets bouncedharmlessly off -- a few slugs managed to bury themselves into the Ragna’s flesh, but the demon wasn’t fazed even as black ooze bubbled from its wounds. It scuttered toward Bottle Blonde, gaining speed and fury with each passing second.

Bottle Blonde dropped her shotgun and fled.

“ _Shit_ ,” Simone hissed, snatching up her Glock. “Fall back! Fall _back_!”

They had no way of controlling the demon; they had to get out of there _now_. They could barricade the room, try to trap the Ragna until they could figure out what to do. But no way was her muscle getting smoked by their own out-of-control secret weapon.

The Slayers obeyed the order enthusiastically. They raced out of the theater, a few girls pausing to send a few parting shots over their shoulders. One Slayer was bowled over by a girl shoving past from behind, and she cried out as another stepped on her hand.

Simone scrambled backwards, shooting again and again at the furious Ragna. And, almost immediately, regretted it.

Her shots were as ineffective as every other bullet the girls had fired, and, rather, only succeeded in drawing the Ragna’s attention away from Bottle Blonde. It spun around, hissing with renewed fury.

“Shit, shit, _shit_!”

“Simone, _come on!_ ” Nisha’s panicked voice came from the backstage door, which she was holding open with one foot as she aimed her own pistol at the demon.

“Working on it!” Simone yelled back.

The Ragna was right on top of her. It reared back; Simone felt the back of her heel catch on the stage floor, and she went sprawling.

“ _Simone!_ ” Nisha screamed.

And that’s when a metal vent covering suddenly broke away from the wall above them with a _crack_ and hit the Ragna square on the head.

The Ragna twisted, searching for the new threat -- and _Buffy Summers_ dropped down, out of seemingly nowhere. She landed on the demon’s enormous abdomen, her expression set with a cold fury that sent of a thrill of begrudging admiration through Simone. The Ragna screamed in rage, pincers clicking -- but on its back, Buffy was out of reach.

A familiar voice yelled: “Between her eyes, Buffy!”, and Buffy thrust a knife directly into the center of the Ragna’s head, between the largest bulbous eyes.

The Ragna let out another blood-chilling shriek -- and its legs crumpled. The awful eyes kept staring straight at Simone, but the furiously clicking pincers slowed, until finally, it fell still.

Buffy leapt deftly from the demon’s back. Behind her, Simone could see Andrew hanging from a vent in the wall, his feet dangling three feet above the ground. He let go, and hit the floor with a grunt.

Simone twisted around, quickly gauging the situation. Besides herself and Nisha, three other Slayers hadn’t managed to get out the doors before the Ragna was felled, and were now staring, open-mouthed, at Buffy. They all still had their guns.

Five against two. One, if you considered Andrew harmless. Maybe not quite as good as having her whole squad present, but Simone still rather liked those odds.

Simone turned back to Buffy, leering. “Nice of you to drop in.”

Buffy had apparently taken in the numbers as well. Her stance was ready - balanced, her black-stained knife held to her side. “Wish I could say it was nice to see you,” she said. “But it’s really _not_.”

“Well, you just killed my demon, so the feeling’s mutual.”

“Please. I just saved _your life_.”

Simone climbed to her feet, trying not to let her disgust at that little fact show on her face. “And in deference to that, I’ll let you walk out of here unharmed. See, I can be fair.”

“Sorry, Simone,” Buffy retorted, her grip tightening on her blade. “Can’t do that. You can’t just _steal_ this island from the people who live here.”

“Buffy, I don’t want to fight you,” Simone said dryly. “It’d hardly be interesting.”

“Not much a fan of the idea myself. But I promised a little girl I’d get her home back for her.”

“Well, you shouldn’t make promises you shouldn’t keep, now should you?” Simone strolled over to her chair and lounged back, stretching her leg over one of the arms. “Here’s the thing, Buff: we’re the ones in power now. Slayers -- we got the kind of strength that ordinary people can’t even _imagine_. It’s our turn to inherit the earth.”

“So you take people’s homes.”

“He- _llo_ , these people hate us, Buff! I’m just looking out for our interests!”

“You’re not exactly giving them a reason not to hate us!” Buffy retorted.

“You really think that if I just rolled over and played nice puppy, they’d like us any more?” Simone asked, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

Buffy’s scowl darkened, and Simone noticed her feet shift ever so slightly. Buffy was readying to fight. Simone glanced at Andrew, who was standing at the the edge of the stage, his gaze flickering between her and Buffy.

Then Simone looked to Nisha and jerked her head. Nisha met her eyes. She nodded.

“You want the island?” Simone said abruptly. “Fine.”

Buffy blinked. “Wait. What?”

“I said you can have the island. We’ve got another base lined up already anyway. Way more strategic than this backwards island. You’ve just got to give me something in return -- show of good faith, you know?”

Buffy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What do you want?”

Simone grinned. “Andrew.”

At that moment, Nisha, who’d been creeping along the sides of the stage, reached Andrew. She snatched him, her arms coming around his chest and neck. Andrew yelped and twisted -- but Nisha’s grip was strong. She wrenched her hand down, knocking off his glasses, and stepped to the side to brace her stance. The glasses crunched under her foot.

“My glasses!” Andrew cried out, sounding distraught.

Buffy’s head swung from Nisha and Andrew, to Simone. Her lips were pressed tightly together, deep lines in her face hardening her expression. A second’s hesitation, then she slipped her knife into her sweatshirt pocket.

“Why do you want Andrew?” she asked. Her hands moved as she spoke.

Simone almost laughed; Buffy had put away her knife so she could _translate_ for Andrew.

It didn’t change much; whether her blade was drawn or sheathed, Buffy was still facing down five guns with a _knife_. And if the situation turned to close combat, Buffy could draw her blade in a millisecond, long before Simone or any of the other Slayers could reach her. Still -- it was the principle of the thing.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Simone said. She spoke quickly; as sickeningly cute it was that Buffy wanted to translate for Andrew, this was a Slayer matter, and Simone had no interest in making it easy for Buffy to let himin on the conversation. “Someone like _him_? Was in charge of someone like _me_? In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m not a fan of authority to begin with. And he’s kind of a drill sergeant, which, you know . . . piss off. I want my payback. Also, he’s incredibly annoying.”

Buffy made a few hand gestures toward Andrew -- not nearly enough to translate every word, Simone was pleased to note.

Then, aloud, Buffy said: “You can’t have him.”

As she signed her words, Andrew squirmed in Nisha’s grip, coughing when her arm tightened around his neck. “Buffy!” he managed to choke out. “Buffy, no! Let her have me. This whole situation was my responsibility. And this is about people’s homes -- a whole town! That’s many. I’m just one. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one.”

Buffy signed something furiously at Andrew, then looked back to Simone, her expression set. “Whatever warped ideas he’s gotten into his head, you’re still not getting him. I don’t leave my people behind.”

“Hmm. That’s a shame,” Simone replied. A dangerous smile played at her lips. “You see, _I’m_ the one in the position of power here. If you won’t give me Andrew in exchange for the island, I suppose I’ll just have to take both Andrew _and_ the island.”

“I won’t let you--”

“And what are you gonna do, Buff? There are three guns pointed at you right now and all you’ve got is a knife!”

Buffy froze, scowling. Simone could see the thoughts churning in her head -- she grinned. She had Buffy up against a wall, and she knew it.

The doors crashed open.

Simone and Buffy and every other Slayer in the room automatically twisted around to look. A half-second later, Andrew did as well, curious to see what everyone was staring at.

His eyes widened. “Italy Squad!”

The double doors leading into the theater were crowded with Simone’s old squadmates, each looking coldly furious and gripping a weapon in their hands. Swords, bows, axes -- no guns.

Simone’s lip curled.

“Let him go, Simone!”

Simone recognized the bossy, haughty voice of the Watcher-wannabe, Claire. She was standing at the front of the group, a crossbow aimed directly at Nisha.

But she wouldn’t shoot; Simone knew Andrew’s Slayers better than that.  

“Not a chance,” Simone snarled back.

Italy Squad kept pushing into the room. Simone counted ten -- fifteen -- twenty . . . and there was still a crowd in the hall outside, all waiting to file out through the theater. The _entire_ Squad must have come.

Simone’s Slayers had swung around to aim their guns at the newcomers -- but they didn’t seem to know who to aim at first. Italy Squad didn’t swing the first blow either.

An uneasy weight of apprehension descended over the room.

“Nisha, listen to me.” It was Melanie, speaking in her insipidly gentle, coddling voice. Simone felt a wave of distaste rise up in her; Melanie could behead most demons with a single swing, yet she’d always behaved as if she believed _kindness_ was the true strength of a Slayer. “Nisha, do you really want to do this? This wasn’t what you meant to sign up for at all, is it?”

“Shut up,” Nisha hissed.

“I remember when you were in the squad, you just talked about efficiency in fighting vampires and demons. To _protect_ people. This -- hurting people, destroying whole towns -- that’s not what you talked about. You didn’t mean for any of this, did you?”

Nisha glanced away, looking haunted. For a moment, she said nothing.

Simone frowned. “Nish?”

And Nisha lifted her gaze to meet Simone’s eyes. A pause.

“I’m doing what we have to do to get what we deserve,” she said finally.

A smile flickered at Simone’s lips. “That’s my lieutenant.”

“You’re going to give us back Andrew!” Claire said harshly. “He’s one of us, and he goes with us!”

Simone snorted at that. “God, you’re all pathetic! You’re clinging to _this_ dweeb, and he’s nothing more than Buffy’s little lapdog. What does that make all of you -- fleas? What d’you think Nish -- can we take a couple fleas?”

Nisha grinned. “Totally, Simone.”

But the rest of the squad had squeezed into the room, and the tide of power had shifted. Simone’s people still had the guns, but there were more opponents than they had bullets; if Italy Squad decided to risk the battle, they would win. Simone was counting on the squad being too soft to risk the lives of even just a few of their own -- but that only brought them to a stalemate. Her victory was slipping away. Simone’s gaze was flickering around the room, mapping an escape route. If they moved quickly, she could get out -- maybe even without losing her possession of Andrew.

She took a step back, toward the exit at the back of the stage. Her eyes jumped to Nisha’s; the other three saps pointing their guns at Italy Squad, she could leave. But she needed her lieutenant.

As she looked to Nisha, however, she noticed the expression on Andrew’s face. He was staring off to his right, looking contemplative.

Simone followed his gaze; Mina was standing off to the side, and her hands were flickering through rapid gestures. And the way Andrew was taking it in made Simone uneasy -- he nodded, curtly. Business-like.

“Nisha!” Simone snapped. “What’s she saying?!”

“I don’t know!” Nisha cried.

“Come on, you’re the one who stuck with the squad while they did their stupid classes!”

“Not for--!”

But she didn’t finish. Natalia had leapt up from below the stage to wrap her arms around Nisha’s calves, dragging her backwards. Nisha tumbled over the side with a cry. Her grip loosened around Andrew; Natalia grabbed him and wrenched him free, shoving Nisha back a good several feet with her other hand.

Several shots rang out. But Simone’s Slayers hadn’t had time to aim, and the bullets all missed, tearing into the wooden paneling of the walls. And then Italy Squad was on the shooters, wrestling the guns away.

Daniela skidded in next to Andrew and handed off her loaded crossbow. With a single quick movement that Simone had never thought him capable of, Andrew swung around, took aim, and fired.

The bolt hit the hinge of the chandelier hanging overhead.

There were already cracks in the ceiling where the plaster had begun to give under the stress of time. Andrew’s bolt buried itself into a crack right at the base of the hinge, and with an ominous groan that became a _crunch_ , the entire chandelier came away.

“Nisha, get back!” shouted Andrew.

The chandelier crashed to the floor, barely inches from where Nisha had been crouched a second ago. Shards of glass shot in every direction; an enormous cloud of dust rose into the air, making Simone cough. In the confusion, the last of Simone’s three extra Slayers were wrestled to the ground.

The fight was over.

Simone grit her teeth. “Fall back, Nish! Come on, we’re leaving!”

Shakily, Nisha scrambled to her feet.

Simone grabbed her arm and hauled her onto the stage. A few of Italy Squad had already started toward them, eager to take them prisoner. But Simone and Nisha ducked under their arms and sprinted for the exit at the back of the stage. They crashed through -- far from victorious, but free.

“C’mon, Nish,” Simone hissed. “Let’s get far away from this godforsaken island. I always hated Italy anyway.”

\----

Andrew was quiet almost the entire trip home. He only nodded wordlessly at Claire’s suggestion to leave half the squad by the island to finish chasing off or capturing the rest of Simone’s scattered rogues, and to keep the Wiccans nearby to render any firearms useless. Then he gathered the rest of his Slayers onto the train back to Rome.

Buffy sat next to him, but Andrew didn’t even look at her. He was sitting with his cheek resting against his hand, staring somberly at the stars overhead. His other hand lay still in his lap, a bandage wrapped around where he’d cut his palm on the broken glass. For a while, Buffy let him ignore her. Andrew looked harrowed, and she didn’t particularly want to push conversation with Italy Squad milling about.

But as the ride dragged on, the Slayers migrated into the other booked-out carriage, seemingly deciding by unspoken agreement to give Andrew some space. When it was just the two of them, Buffy placed a gentle, but firm, hand on Andrew’s shoulder.

After a moment, he reluctantly turned to look at her.

Buffy gave him a wry smile. “ _Nice shot earlier_ ,” she signed.

“ _Thank you. I’ve been practicing_.”

“ _I know_.”

A pause stretched heavily between them. Andrew did not look away. He knew she hadn’t just gotten his attention to praisehim.

Buffy let her expression slip into seriousness. “ _Do you understand why I’m upset?”_

_“I made a demon.”_

Buffy shook her head. “ _More. You lied to me.”_

At first, Andrew looked as if he were about to protest. But instead, he slumped his shoulders. He signed something -- but he moved too fast, and Buffy didn’t recognize all the gestures.

“ _Out loud?”_ she asked.

“You all trusted me to be a Watcher. I just didn’t want you to think you were wrong. I thought I was doing everything for the right reasons. I didn’t mean to lie to you, but I did. And I’m sorry.”

Buffy let her expression gentle. Slowly, she nodded. “ _Okay_. _I understand why you lied. It’s still wrong, but you’re still--”_

Damn. She’d forgotten the sign.

“ _You’re still--_ ” And then, she fingerspelled: “ _F - A - M - I - L - Y.”_

Andrew stared. “I’m . . . I’m family?” he murmured, as if not trusting his eyes.

Buffy smiled.

But then, to her surprise, Andrew’s face fell. He looked down.

Buffy reached out and touched his shoulder again. His eyes flickered up, and she frowned questioningly. “ _What_?”

“I . . . ” He swallowed. “The Ragna wasn’t the only thing I was keeping from you.”

Buffy felt a sense of trepidation wash over her. “ _What_?” she signed again.

“I was, um. I was working on altering a summoning spell to get some Aserioan demons as guards for Italy Squad. I’ll stop if you want me to,” he added hastily. “But something Warren said made me think he might come after us, and he can breach any of my tech safeguards, and Amy can break through anything my Wiccans put up. I didn’t think I had any choice.”

Buffy didn’t know what an Aserioan demon was, but if Andrew was feeling so guilty about it, there was a chance they were pretty dangerous. Especially considering his last demon project. But at least he was coming clean. “ _Ask Willow to do magic for you_ ,” she signed. “ _Willow is stronger than Amy_.”

Andrew nodded vigorously. “Okay. And, um. There’s one more thing.”

“ _What_?” Buffy asked, feeling weary.

Andrew turned in his seat, so that he was facing Buffy fully. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked to be having trouble putting his words in order.

Again: “ _What_?”

“Have you heard about the Twilight prophecy?”

\----

When they reached Rome, Buffy left immediately to catch a flight to Scotland. There was a cold fury whipping around her, and most of Italy Squad hastened to skitter out of her way, only the bravest managing to snap a sharp salute in farewell. But Buffy’s anger wasn’t directed at Andrew; just before she slipped away, she paused, and squeezed his shoulder. “ _Thank you_ ,” she signed.

And then she was gone.

Andrew quietly led the way back to Italy Squad HQ, his head down. Claire and Melanie exchanged worried glances, but they said nothing.

It was almost four in the morning when they got back to HQ. Andrew vaguely signed something about guards, but made no move to arrange anything further. He wandered off toward the office, leaving Mina to collect a few volunteers to take on sentry duty and send the rest of the Slayers to get a few hours of rest.

Again, Claire and Melanie exchanged glances. This time, they followed after Andrew and slipped into the office right behind him.

Andrew looked up as they entered. He didn’t look particularly surprised to see them. Wearily, he greeted: “ _Hello.”_

“ _Hello_ ,” Claire replied.

She looked over at Melanie, wordlessly asking her to take the lead.

But before Melanie could say anything, Andrew turned away, and murmured: “You don’t have to say anything. I’ve already decided: I’m stepping down as Watcher.”

Claire’s eyes flew wide. To her right, she could see that Melanie looked as thunderstruck as she felt. They’d come here to ask if Andrew was okay, ask what Buffy had said to make him hang his head. And they’d meant to tell him off for running off without any Squad support, for putting himself at risk, for his misguided unilateral demon project -- but not ask for his resignation.

But when Claire stepped forward and gripped Andrew’s shoulder, turning him back to face them, she saw the haunted weariness in his expression. Her heart twisted.

A second’s decision, and she said: “ _Melanie said your job is hurting you. I think she’s right_.”

Andrew said nothing.

Melanie came forward, too, and she draped an arm across Andrew’s shoulders. Andrew remained stiff under her half-embrace, but a shadow of vulnerability flickered over his face as he looked at her.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered finally.

Claire shook her head. “ _You did well. We’re proud of you_.” And it was true; no matter what mistakes Andrew had made, he’d only ever wanted to protect his Slayers, in any way he could. They knew that.

Glumly, Andrew nodded, but he didn’t look as if he believed her. After a moment, he continued: “I suppose I’ll go pack.”

Melanie jerked back. “ _Why_?”

“Um, because you guys were right when you started holding those meetings? I shouldn’t be in Italy Squad.”

“ _You don’t understand_ ,” Claire replied hastily. “ _We like you. We’re proud of you. We still need you._ ”

Andrew frowned. “But I shouldn’t be Watcher anymore. You guys agreed.”

“ _We want to share your job_ ,” Melanie said. “ _But we still need you. You know demons and training. But you shouldn’t do everything alone anymore.”_

Andrew stared at her, as if hardly daring to believe her. His eyes were wide, and Claire could see a shimmer of unspilt tears.

Slowly, he brought up his hands, and signed: “ _You want me to stay?_ ”

Melanie nodded. She replied: “ _We always did_.”

And this time, when she put an arm across his shoulders, Andrew leaned against her -- and he cried, even as an uncontrollable grin spread across his face.

“Thank you,” he choked out. And again: “Thank you.”


	12. Chapter 12

The numbers on Andrew’s watch glowed dimly in the darkness of the shared bedroom. 12:15 AM.

He rolled over and peeked through the side rails on his bed. The other girls in the room all appeared to be sleeping deeply. Claire was curled up on her side, both hands tucked up under her cheek; Melanie had sprawled out like a starfish over rumpled sheets; Nita was visibly snoring; Indira somehow seemed perfectly comfortable with her face squashed directly into her pillow.

Mina’s bed was empty. She was on guard duty. She would be the hardest to sneak by.

But if Andrew had timed it right, there should be a one minute gap in between Mina and Puteri’s patrols around the perimeter of Italy Squad HQ. He could pass through the ground-level exit with no one any the wiser.

As carefully as he could manage, Andrew climbed out of bed and down the ladder of his bunk to land on the floor. He was already dressed in jeans and sneakers, his stormtrooper sweatshirt zipped up to his neck. As he slipped out of the room, he flipped the hood up.

The halls were empty and dark, lit only by the soft glow of nightlights plugged in at the corners. Andrew passed through the living quarters, into the lounge, and up the stairs to the exit. At the door, he paused, and checked his watch. One minute to the gap. Now, thirty seconds . . . twenty . . . ten . . . now. He shoved the door open.

And walked right into Raya.

Andrew had been staring back over his shoulder, convinced he’d timed this escape perfectly, and so he didn’t see her standing right outside the doorway. He bumped into her shoulder, and let out a squeak of surprise.

Raya spun on the spot, automatically assuming a defensive stance -- and her eyes widened.

“ _Andrew_?” Andrew read on her lips.

Raya held up her hands and started to sign jerkily. “ _What_ \--” But Raya had never quite been able to wrap her mind around sign language, and so she cut off and pulled her phone out of her pocket.

Probably for the best, Andrew thought. It was hard to see her hands in this light.

“ _Wat r u doing_?” Raya typed out.

“I’m. Uh. Um. Going for a walk? What are _you_ doing here, anyway? You’re not on duty tonight.”

“ _Mina saw gap in patrol routes and asked me 2 take over a third route_.”

Andrew bit his lip. This new shared responsibility thing had made for more reliable schedules and better-reviewed plans and tactics. But apparently the reverse was that it was more or less impossible for him to sneak out unnoticed when he wanted to.

Raya was still peering at him suspiciously, and she typed: “ _its l8 4 a walk._ ”

“Yeah. Um. Couldn’t sleep, you know? Insomnia.” He waved a hand vaguely. “It helps me clear my mind.”

“ _shuld i get sum1 to go w u?”_

“No,” Andrew said quickly. “Let the squad sleep. I do this all the time, anyway. Just ask Mina -- she’ll tell you!”

Mina would say no such thing, but Andrew knew Raya was too intimidated by her to ask. She’d have to take his word for it.

As he predicted, Raya shifted uneasily from foot to foot, but when she opened a new message on her phone, it was only to type out: “ _r u sure_?”

Andrew nodded. He had to hurry to shake Raya; the last metro left in just ten minutes. “Seriously, I’ll be fine,” he said, flashing her his most confident smile. “If I’m not back in two hours, you can send out a search party. But I promise, I’ll be back and fast asleep by then.”

After a moment, Raya inclined her head. She was still evidently uneasy, but she wasn’t going to argue him.

Poor Raya. She was never comfortable making decisions. It was part of why Andrew had suggested Claire give her more routine patrols to lead, so that she could practice in a relatively safe setting.

Andrew hurried off, pulling his sweatshirt more tightly around him. He managed to avoid both Mina and Puteri and, unhindered, he rushed toward the metro. Down darkened sidewalks, scrambling down the steps for the underground -- Andrew managed to sprint into the last car at the end of the train, seconds before the doors closed behind him. The time on his watch glowed: 12:29 AM.  

He’d have to find another way home to get back by the time he’d promised Raya. Ah, well.

Andrew rode the metro to the very last stop of the blue line. The streets there were dark, the shadows stretching out in every direction. Andrew slunk over to a street intersection and lingered under the street sign, his eyes darting all around the late-night street.

Maybe Raya was right; maybe it was stupid to come here alone . . .

A flicker in the shadows made Andrew jump. He spun around, heart pounding.

And grinned.

“Spike!”

Spike was leaning up against an old brick building, his dark coat hanging off his shoulders. As Andrew beamed at him, his eyebrows lifted. One hand came up, and waved lazily. “ _Hello_.”

Andrew scrambled up to stand in front of Spike. “ _Hello_ ,” he signed back. But then he dropped his hands to his sides. “This is getting hard,” he muttered, a whine to his voice. “Mina and Melanie and Claire are sharing the Watcher job now, and it’s super tough to get away without people noticing. Raya almost caught me. Or -- well, she _did_ catch me. But I convinced her to let me go.”

Spike winced. “ _Quiet down_ ,” he instructed.

“Oh. Sorry. Am I talking too loud?”

Spike held up his thumb and forefinger, held a half-inch apart. _“A little bit._ ”

“Sorry,” Andrew said, his voice no quieter than before. “Um. Anyway, why did you want me to meet you here? You know it’s hard for me to talk to you here. I can’t see your hands that well, so unless you have some cool night vision goggles for me . . .” He trailed off, and watched Spike apprehensively, as if hoping Spike really _did_ have some night vision goggles on hand.

But Spike just rolled his eyes and grabbed roughly at Andrew’s elbow.

Andrew yelped in surprise. But when Spike began to drag him along, he came readily.

“Where are we going?” he asked aloud.

Spike did not reply. He pulled Andrew along, down the empty, darkened streets, back toward the soft lights of the city. Five blocks down, they came across a small, dingy-looking cafe with a neon sign flickering in the window: the sign proclaimed the establishment to be open twenty-four hours. Andrew blinked; that was unusual in Rome.

Spike pushed Andrew inside. Despite the sketchy exterior of the cafe, the inside was clean and well-lit. A wired employee bounced behind the counter and grinned at them as they came in, clearly relieved to be given some respite of the monotony of the late hours. He spoke rapidly to Spike, who retorted something in return.

Andrew _really_ missed his translation glasses. (Willow would be sending a new pair as soon as she could; her hard of hearing Wiccan had kept the old spare. Andrew really hoped they would hurry up.)

Spike had apparently ordered a pair of espressos, because as he steered Andrew toward a table at the back of the cafe, the barista behind the counter laid out two small glasses with a dark shot of coffee in each. Spike picked up the drinks, tossed a bill on the counter, and brought the glasses over to the table. Andrew peered at his suspiciously.

“I’m not supposed to drink caffeine after dinner,” he muttered. “It keeps me awake.”

Spike shot him a droll look. But he shrugged, and pulled the second glass back over to his own side of the table. Then he sat down, opposite Andrew.

“ _Tell me about Buffy_ ,” he signed.

\----

This arrangement had been going on since the last time Spike and Angel had shown up in Rome together, hellbent on tracking down the Immortal and giving him a piece of their mind. That’d been almost a year ago. After that incident, Spike had decided he needed to get his news from someone other than Angel, and a week later, had called Andrew to demand an update.

Monthly phone calls had continued from then, Spike always calling from a different, anonymous number (the logistics of calling from space were complicated). Andrew would describe the recent exploits of Slayer Organization, reiterating whatever the news outlets were reporting. Buffy eventually knocked enough heads together to discover Spike was alive but . . . well, Spike had never quite figured out how to have the "'Ello, how about a welcome-home-from-the-dead hug?" talk, so it wasn’t like he and Buffy ever had their grand reunion.

It was a strange arrangement; Andrew would never tell Spike anything that wasn’t official Slayer Organization PR, and so the initial ‘informant’ purpose of these talks was pretty resoundly negated. But Spike rather liked having a personal messenger, and although he'd never say it aloud, the boy's recounts of events were always entertaining.

Nevertheless, there was an unspoken agreement between them that Buffy not know they were in communication. Official PR only or not, there was still just the principle that Andrew was talking to someone who was supposed to be dead, and who had thus far failed to call her.

“You _are_ going to talk to her eventually?” Andrew would say, at the end of every call. “You’re kinda immortal. You can’t hide forever.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Spike would toss back. “I’ll get ‘round to it. Don’t go all Watcher wisdom on me.”

But the months had stretched on, and the calls had continued.

Until, one day, Andrew didn’t pick up. One week went by, then two. And Andrew still didn’t pick up, still didn’t return his calls.

Almost in a panic, Spike had flown directly to Rome. At the old apartment where he’d last seen Andrew, he met a landlord, and managed to use broken Italian to get some information out of him.

“No, there were never any girls living here. Just the one boy, although he did always have a number of young women calling on him. Where is he now? Oh, I don’t know. He only stayed here a few months, while his permanent headquarters were being built. Whatever that means.”

At least Spike’s insect crew had been able to use their spaceship instruments to track down the location of the underground HQ, and he’d camped out at nights, just barely out of sight of the entrance, and narrowly avoiding the routine patrols of the strange Slayers. Until -- _finally_ \-- one evening, the secret passageway to the underground catacombs had opened up, and out wandered a figure in an obnoxiously bright Union Jack hoodie, a foot-long grocery list clutched in one hand.

Andrew had not reacted when Spike called his name.

“Oi! Andrew! _Andrew_!”

But he’d just kept walking, gaze fixed on his shopping list. Irritated and bewildered, Spike hurried after him and snatched the back of the boy’s sweatshirt to spin him around.

“Wha-- _Spike_?!” Andrew had gasped. “What are you--? Are you here ‘cause I wasn’t picking up? I’m sorry; I couldn’t hear your calls, and if I asked one of my girls to translate for me, they’d know you were back, and word would get back to Buffy. They’ve all heard the story of the glorious Spike and his heroic sacrifice, you know. So, yeah, I was just working on figuring out a new way to contact you, now that I’m deaf and all.”

Well, _damn_.

Monthly calls became monthly visits; Andrew would meet with Spike late at night in various corners of Rome, always far away from the prying eyes of Andrew’s squad. And over drinks (Spike’s choice) or cannoli (Andrew’s), Andrew would continue his regular updates. Tonight made their fourth meeting.

 _“You told her about the Twilight prophecy?_ ” Spike said, watching Andrew with surprise. “ _Giles told you not to_.” Boy had guts, he’d been coming to realize over the past year. There was always that spark of proud admiration whenever Andrew managed to disobey a direct order.

“ _Buffy was mad because I lied to her. I didn’t want to lie to her anymore_.”

Spike stiffened slightly. If Andrew had developed a conscience about white lies where Buffy was concerned -- well, there were some direct orders Andrew could _not_ disobey. “ _What else did you tell her_?”

 _“Don’t worry_. _I only talked about Twilight and my demons_.”

 _“Good_ ,” Spike replied curtly.

Andrew fixed him with a firm stare, and if he didn’t have to use his hands, he would have crossed his arms. “ _You need to talk to her._ ”

Spike ignored him. _“What did she say about Twilight_?”

“Um.” Andrew shrugged. “ _She was mad. She planned a big meeting for next week. I’ll have to go to Scotland again.”_

_“Mad at you?”_

Andrew shook his head. “ _Only a little bit. She was more mad at Giles because he didn’t tell her. She wanted me to tell her everything I knew, so I did_.”

Spike nodded, gesturing for him to continue.

 _“I told her that she was part of the prophecy. She thought I knew who Twilight was, too. But we don’t know that yet._ ”

Spike blinked. “ _You don’t know who Twilight is?_ ”

Andrew gave him a funny look. “ _No. I would have told you_.”

Spike couldn’t help the grin that spread across his lips. This was too rich; Giles and his crack team of Watcher researchers hadn’t been able to uncover the blindingly obvious. “ _Twilight is Angel_ ,” he said gleefully.

But he used the fluttering hand sign for the word, and Andrew frowned.

“Twilight is an angel?” he said aloud, bemused. “I didn’t read about them in my Watcher training. I thought angels were _actually_ a myth.”

 _“No_ ,” Spike replied. “ _A - N - G - E - L_.”

Andrew still looked perplexed, and Spike sighed. No wonder the crack team of Watcher researchers hadn’t been able to figure out anything meaningful; here he was trying to practically lay it out on a plate for Andrew, and the boy had to be being _deliberately_ dense.

 _“Angel_ ,” Spike tried again. “ _Vampire Angel_.”

Andrew’s eyes flew wide. “Oh, you mean _that_ Angel! Wait, Twilight is Angel?!”

Spike inclined his head. There we go, he thought. Finally.

“ _How do you know?_ ” Andrew demanded.

Spike gave him a long look that made it clear he thought that was a stupid question. “ _Looks like Angel. And no one has heard from Angel for several months. Weird._ ” Angel’s brooding was of the epic proportion variety, and he’d gotten used to having an audience for his self-flagellation. But as far as Spike knew, no one -- not Connor, not Gunn, not that girl on the police force, not himself -- had been subject to Angel’s moaning in quite some time.

 _“Are you sure_?” Andrew asked.

Obviously. Spike nodded.

“ _How long have you known?”_

Spike shrugged.

_“Why didn’t you tell me?”_

The boy looked actually hurt. Hastily, Spike replied: “ _Thought you knew_.” Because, really, how could they have _not_ figured it out? Who else was melodramatic enough to fly around the world in a cape and mask like that?

“ _I have to tell Buffy_ ,” Andrew said, and his chair squeaked on the tile as he suddenly shoved back from the table.

Spike blinked. “ _Now_?”

“Uh-huh. This is important. She’ll want to know right away.”

“ _But it’s late._ ”

“Scotland’s an hour behind. She’ll probably still be up.”

Spike climbed to his feet, espressos forgotten on the table. He was startled by the sudden halt to their conversation, but he knew the boy’s loyalty. If Andrew had decided he was honor-bound to report back to Buffy at one in the morning, nothing short of an alien abduction would shake him.

Admittedly, Spike _could_ arrange that, but . . .

Andrew had already pulled his phone out of his pocket and was furiously typing. “By the way, Spike -- I didn’t tell her you’ve been around this time, but I’m done lying to her. I’m not meeting with you anymore, not until you talk to her first. She deserves a hello from you.”

Spike’s eyebrows lifted.

Andrew looked up again. “Oh. And, uh. Think you could give me a ride home? I promised Raya I’d be home soon, but the metro is closed, and the bus will take forever. Could you use your spaceship . . .? It would be _so cool_.”

The boy looked too damn hopeful for someone who’d just laid out an ultimatum at Spike’s feet. And interstellar starships were not meant for cross-town trips, anyway.

But Spike rolled his eyes and replied: “ _Okay. Come on, astronaut_.”

Maybe he could take the boy on a quick revolution of low Earth orbit before dropping him back, too -- prove just how ‘cool’ his ship really was.

\----

Jonathan was crouched down at the bank of his stream, peering at the water below him. He’d been sitting there so long that if this weren’t heaven, his knees would have begun to ache. But this _was_ heaven, and so he felt no discomfort as the meeting he was not attending continued to drag on.

But, finally, he heard the crunch of footsteps on the forest path behind him. Jonathan looked up.

“How’d it go?”

Dennis gave a noncommittal shrug. “It’s still ongoing. But Katrina’s gone, so you can come back now.”

“Oh. Okay.” Jonathan rocked back on his heels to push himself up from the ground.

Then Dennis’ hand was there, proffered palm-up.

Jonathan stared up at Dennis. After a beat, he took the hand, and Dennis hauled him up. “Thanks,” Jonathan said quietly.

“You’re welcome,” Dennis replied.

Jonathan’s gaze slid away.

A week had passed since the explosive encounter with Katrina and the following escape to Earth. There’d been a guarded look in Dennis’ expression ever since. Cordelia had also been speaking to him more curtly, sometimes shooting orders and questions to Jonathan without bothering to look at him. A week of tension, and Jonathan was exhausted.

But both Dennis and Cordelia were still talking to him, and neither of them had attempted to turn him into a social pariah. That much was probably more out of deference to Katrina’s privacy than any compassion for him, but nevertheless -- Jonathan felt it was more than he deserved.

“Are you ready to go?” Dennis asked, not unkindly.

“Uh-huh,” Jonathan replied, brushing down his pants.

Dennis turned away, his hands in his pockets. Jonathan followed after him.

The forest swirled around them as they passed back into Cordelia’s heaven, the thick foliage giving way to neatly trimmed hedges lining a sidewalk. Jonathan and Dennis made their way up the pathway, an uneasy pause lying over the atmosphere.

“So,” Dennis tried, after a moment. “Were you trying to scry again? Any luck?”

Jonathan blinked. “Huh?”

“Back in your heaven. You were looking at the water?”

“Oh. Yeah,” Jonathan replied. “I was trying to watch JJ. You know, the kid Andrew named after me? I've been working on it, and now if I focus hard enough, I can break through the block on my scrying for a second. I think. The Powers could be sending me fake visions to humor me.”

A small smile twitched at Dennis’ lips. “How does she _seem_ to be doing?”

“Okay, I think. I don’t know that much about kids, but she seems happier. If the visions are real.”

“That’s good to hear. You know, when you first mentioned that little newsflash, Cordy had thought Andrew had become a _father_.”

“ _What_?!” Jonathan yelped. “Oh, god no.” He snorted and shook his head. “I can’t imagine Andrew as a dad. Like, ever. But man, now I feel old.”

Dennis looked at him then, and deliberately lifted his eyebrows.

“Nothing on you, of course,” Jonathan amended.

Dennis huffed a breath of laughter as he pushed open the door.

Scott the doorman wasn’t present today; the hotel they entered had been temporarily cut from the shared hotel they usually visited, creating a kind of pocket alternate universe that was shut off save from the Sunnydale souls who were volunteering their energies to divert the Twilight crisis. As a result, the lobby was disconcertingly empty -- no employees at reception, no tourists resting in the plush chairs or meandering about to peer at the artwork on the walls. Voices were coming from a conference room off to the right. Jonathan recognized Cordelia’s voice rise, just a little louder than the others:

“Anyone else here have any magical training? Yes, Jill, I know _you_ escaped a vampire attack that one time, but so did almost everyone here. Except for those who were killed by their first attack.”

Dennis and Jonathan slipped into the back of the conference room. The room was set up with about a good hundred seats laid out in neat rows, almost all filled. Cordelia stood at the front of the room, where a projection screen displayed a larger-than-life image of Twilight hovering menacingly over rocky terrain. When Dennis and Jonathan entered, Cordelia glanced up and gave them a small, acknowledging nod.

“Come on,” Dennis whispered to Jonathan. “There’s a couple of free seats over here.”

He led Jonathan through the back row, to almost the very end. There were two empty chairs there; Dennis sat in one, and gestured for Jonathan to take the other.

Jonathan moved to oblige -- but then suddenly recoiled. He’d noticed who would be sitting on his other side.

“Jonathan?” Dennis asked, when Jonathan didn’t sit down.

Tara Maclay heard the name and looked up. Her eyes widened, and as Jonathan watched, his heart sinking, her face paled.

“I can’t sit here,” Jonathan hissed to Dennis. “I’ll, uh, go find somewhere else.”

“What?” Dennis read the look on Jonathan’s face, and followed his gaze to Tara. Immediately, his expression closed off. “Is she another--?”

“It’s not the same,” Jonathan muttered. “I wasn’t involved. Not directly. But I still probably shouldn’t . . . I’m sorry,” he said to Tara, not meeting her eyes. “I’ll move.”

But Tara shook her head, her long hair swinging in front of her face. “It’s okay,” she whispered back. “You can sit.”

“Are . . . are you sure?”

Mutely, Tara nodded.

“I’ll sit between you,” Dennis offered, and scooted over so that the free spot was between him and an elderly woman that Jonathan had never met.

Jonathan took the seat and stared resolutely ahead. Cordelia was still addressing the souls assembled in front of her, but Jonathan had to struggle to focus on what she was saying. He was acutely aware of the tension that had settled over their three chairs. Tara didn’t look to be trying to avoid him, but she’d shrunk down in her seat; Dennis was obviously on edge, unanswered questions burning in his expression. Jonathan wanted to be anywhere other than here.

But Jonathan had already learned he couldn’t run away. As ashamed as he felt -- and he _did_ ; he felt so ashamed that had he been on Earth, he’d have been sick -- he resolved himself to focus on the meeting. Yes, Tara knew him from the worst period of his life. Yes, by supporting Warren, he’d indirectly contributed to her death. But she hadn’t asked him to leave, and he’d promised to do what he could to prevent Twilight from destroying their realm.

He sucked in a breath.

Cordelia was summarizing Twilight’s possession of Angel and the powers the Twilight entity seemed to have.  “So as I explained earlier: as far as we know, Twilight has complete control over Angel, and Angel is probably not even aware what he’s doing while he’s being used as an undead meatsuit. From what we’ve seen and what some of you have reported, Angel -- or Twilight -- has developed powers that even vampires don’t usually get.”

“I was watching my sister -- she saw him _fly_!” cried someone toward the front.

“Right,” Cordelia replied. “Exactly what I’m talking about. But, _again_ , I really don’t like being interrupted, so zip it until I’m done, okay?”

There was a grumble, but the out-of-turn speaker did not call out again.

Instead, on the other side of the room, another soul stood up and shot a hand into the air. It was another twenty-something man, whose orange-and-green-striped shirt was tucked into pressed pants and looked distinctly to be a few decades out of date. Jonathan wondered for a moment how he’d died.

Cordelia made a show of rolling her eyes, but she turned to the young man and asked: “Yes?”

“If the problem is that Twilight is possessing this ‘Angel’, why not just do an exorcism? There are plenty of folks here who could do a spell like that. Just get me down to Earth, and I’ll--”

“Yes, Peter, I’m aware you’re itching to show off. But Twilight is neither a spirit nor a demon,” Cordelia retorted. “An exorcism sends a _spirit or demon_ back to its home dimension. And as Twilight is the entity of a realm on its own, what home dimension do you think we’re sending it to, exactly?”

“The dimension it came from?”

“Are you listening? It didn’t come from a _dimension_. It is a _realm_. Realms are made of dimensions. That’s like trying to send a town back to its house.”

Jonathan saw one of Tara’s hands twitch. He glanced over, and saw her hand rise a few inches from her chair, then drop back down -- as if she’d meant to raise her hand, but changed her mind.

“Well, maybe we can alter the exorcism, and send it to its own realm instead?” Peter suggested.

“Twilight _is_ a realm,” Cordelia argued. “It didn’t just come from a realm. It _is_ a realm -- or will be.”

“This is giving me a headache,” Peter grumbled.

“Shall we start over again? Twilight will bring itself into existence. That means it does not exist yet, but _will_. It’s an unhatched egg realm that’s decided to latch onto Angel. And believe me, things that bring themselves into existence are _not_ pretty.” There was a tense tone in Cordelia’s voice.

Judging by the mutters that bubbled around the room, much of the audience was still lost. Jonathan frowned; Sunnydale alumni may be better-versed than the average soul on the supernatural and crazy, world-ending dimensional issues, but they were by no means experts. And Cordelia, spurred by heated emotions, was jumping through her explanations too quickly to process.

But one person was following.

Tara’s head was down, but her eyes were fixed on Cordelia, and there was a sharpness in her gaze. She looked unsure, and to somebody else, she might have looked as confused as the rest of the audience in the room. But Jonathan knew the difference between confusion and shyness. Tara knew exactly what Cordelia was talking about, but for some reason, she was painfully nervous.

Her hand twitched again. This time, her hand fluttered almost all the way to shoulder height before she balked, and tucked it back under her leg.

“Dennis,” Jonathan muttered. Dennis turned to glance at him; Jonathan jerked his head toward Tara. “I think she wants to say something.”

Dennis took in Tara’s expression, then leaned closer to whisper something to her. Tara looked startled to be addressed. Just barely, Jonathan could hear her reply: “Um, afterwards.”

After that, Tara’s hands stayed firmly tucked under her legs, but the thoughtful gleam in her eyes remained.

The meeting had already dragged on for well over an hour, so Cordelia was wrapping up her summaries of what she’d already explained to the volunteers. Finally, she declared: “Now, you all know the issues and what we’re up against. Some of you have been given assignments of people to watch down on Earth. Do your jobs, keep your eyes open, and we’ll meet back in two days. If you have a heaven without days or with backwards time or whatever other abstract workings you guys come up with, you’ll get a summons to remind you.”

The volume in the room pitched up as the audience began to get up from their chairs. Some made their way toward the doors; others simply faded out as they returned to their own heavens.

Tara stood as well, but rather than leaving, she turned to Dennis and Jonathan. “Um,” she said quietly, her gaze flickering between the two of them. “Can I talk to Cordelia? I, uh. I think I have an idea.”

“Of course,” Dennis replied. “Come with me.”

He led her through the rows of seats to the front, where Cordelia was already fending off a small crowd of souls who kept shooting questions at her. Jonathan followed quietly, trailing several feet behind so as to put some space between him and Tara.

But as they waited for Cordelia to chase off her inquisitors, Tara kept shooting uneasy glances in Jonathan’s direction. He stepped back further.

Tara’s lips pressed together as a look of indecision came over her face. She hesitated for a few heartbeats, then moved closer to him.

“You don’t have to hide,” she said quietly. “I knew you would be here.”

Jonathan blinked. “You, uh. You did?” He’d thought that seeing him might have been a rude surprise for Tara, the way it’d been for Katrina.

She nodded. “Cordelia told us how you found out about, um, everything. So, uh. I knew you were involved. And I also knew you’re trying to help people. That’s . . . that’s good.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Jonathan swallowed. “I know it doesn’t mean anything, but I really do feel bad about everything that happened that year. I want to do what I can to make things right.”

“I wouldn’t say that doesn’t mean _anything_ ,” Tara replied quietly. “It does mean something about you, doesn’t it? And, um. If you’re trying to do good, heaven’s as good a place as any to start, I think.”

Jonathan ducked his head. “Um. Thank you.”

Tara gave him a small smile. There was still a shadow of fear in her gaze that looked to be more than the shyness she showed when she looked at anyone else, but she was choosing to trust him.

Dennis was watching them curiously. Wariness was written in the line of his shoulders, but like Tara, he’d chosen to trust. To trust Jonathan, to trust Tara’s judgement.

Jonathan was in awe of them both.

“Yeesh,” Cordelia muttered as she finally made her way over to them. “Half these people have the same questions. Can’t they just talk to _each other_?” Then she spotted Tara, who was lurking behind Dennis. “Who’s this? Got another question for me?”

Tara flinched at the long-suffering tone in Cordelia’s voice. But she managed to speak up: “No. I’m . . . I’m Tara. Tara Maclay? And I have an idea.”

Cordelia’s gaze sharpened.

“ _Tara Maclay_? As in, Willow’s witch girlfriend?”

“Um . . . yes.”

“It’s good to finally talk to you in person,” Cordelia said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Tara looked slightly disconcertedly, evidently concerned about what _exactly_ Cordelia had heard about her.

Cordelia didn’t notice. She continued: “You have an idea for me?”

“Yes,” Tara replied. “It’s about Twilight. Well, um. Exorcisms don’t work because it’s not a spirit, right?”

“Yes,” Cordelia said slowly.

“But it’s not a corporeal being, either. It’s metaphysical.”

“Right.” Cordelia was obviously wondering where this was going.

“That means Earth portals wouldn’t do much either. But, um . . . the portal you said you used to go to hell. That’s not an Earth portal. It works for spirits. But I don’t think it’s specifically for spirits. I think . . . I think those kind of portals work for any metaphysical being.”

Comprehension flickered on Cordelia’s face. “So you think Twilight . . .”

Tara nodded quickly. “A metaphysical portal opened near or within Angel could trap Twilight without hurting Angel.”

“Oh my god,” Cordelia said. “Now, _that’s_ a decent idea.”

A small smile pulled at Tara’s lips.

“I’m going to look into this,” Cordelia told her. “The next meeting is in two days. I’ll tell you if this looks promising then. In the meantime, you go back to your heaven and pull out all the stops; you deserve the best paradise you can think of.”

Tara ducked her head, still smiling.

“Oh. Jonathan.”

Jonathan started. “Uh, yes?”

“Come with me,” Cordelia said. “I need to get out of here before Peter gets back with another half-dozen questions, and I can fill you in on what you missed over drinks at the hotel bar.”

“Oh,” Jonathan said, surprised. “Oh. Yeah, sure.”

“Dennis, Tara -- you’re free to join us if you like.”

Dennis readily nodded. Tara, though, paused just long enough to glance at Jonathan. He could see the moment’s hesitation in her eyes, and he steeled himself for the inevitable guilt when she rejected the invitation to avoid his presence. Tara agreeing to let him sit by her during a meeting was one matter; coming with him to after-hour drinks was verging on friendship.

But then, Tara looked back to Cordelia and said: “That sounds nice.”

Jonathan’s shock was written in every line of his face.

\----

Several hours later, Jonathan emerged into his own heaven, the somehow non-repulsive flavor of heaven beer still on his lips. His form shimmered into existence in the warm forest, and Jonathan took a step forward.

And was immediately aware that something _was different_.

It was a knowledge that tugged at the corner of his consciousness: something, somewhere in his heaven, had changed. It wasn’t . . . a bad feeling. But it was incessant.

Bewildered, Jonathan followed the sensation in his mind; it grew stronger as he walked in one direction in particular, and so he continued along that way, through the trees and moss, picking up speed as he drew closer.

And then the forest thinned out, and he was standing in a clearing that had never been there before. In the center of that clearing was a strange, wooden lodge, with small, four-paned windows and a red-painted door.

Jonathan stared. This was the source of the strange awareness in his mind, he was certain. But for all the mystery of a randomly-appearing cabin in the woods, the lodge wasn’t emitting any ominous atmosphere. Jonathan paced a circle around the perimeter, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Other than the fact that it hadn’t been there a few hours before, of course.

Deciding that the lodge probably wasn’t a threat, he returned to the front door, and pushed it open. And he blinked.

Inside was a brightly-lit comic store. It was much bigger inside than the outside had seemed to suggest -- and there was no immediately evident name for the store, so in his head, Jonathan called it ‘TARDIS Comics’. The store inside was obviously two or three stories tall, with winding staircases spiraling up to lofts up at the top, and floor-to-ceiling shelves lining every wall. Thousands and thousands of comics were stacked throughout the store. Jonathan picked up the closest issue -- and his eyes flew wide as he recognized issue 27 of the 1939 Detective Comics. The very first introduction of Batman.

But strangest by far was that the comic store was full of other souls. There were at least a dozen other people wandering through the shelves, none of whom Jonathan had ever seen before.

“Hello.”

The sudden voice behind Jonathan made him jump. A woman with bright pink spiked hair leaned up against a shelf on the other side of the aisle, and she lifted her eyebrows as he spun around.

“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to scare you. But you’re new here, aren’t ya? I haven’t seen you here before.”

“Um,” Jonathan answered helpfully.

“You just get to heaven?”

“No,” Jonathan replied. “I’ve, uh, been dead for two years.”

“Huh,” the woman said. “You must be a late joiner then.”

“‘Late joiner’?” Jonathan echoed, bewildered.

“Yeah. We get a couple of them every so often. This here’s a shared heaven, you see? You still have your own heaven, but sometimes some of you take a while to decide to link up to your shared part.”

“I-I didn’t decide anything,” Jonathan protested. “I just _found_ this place in my heaven. It was just suddenly there.”

“Sure,” the woman replied. “That’s how it works. Most of us don’t know about all this shared heaven stuff when we first show up, you know. But on some level, you realize you’re ready to make some new friends, and then ya just . . . link up.” She shrugged.

Jonathan stared around at the store, momentarily lost for words. He’d been aware that of the other heavens he’d seen, his was the only one that was isolated. Even now, he registered that the shared portion of his heaven was much smaller than his private forest, a distinct contrast to Jenny’s beachside city or Cordelia’s bustling hotel.

But small shared area or not, the salient fact remained: somehow, he’d ‘linked’.

The woman was still leaning against the shelf, watching Jonathan’s reaction. As wonder spread across his expression, she grinned. “So, anyway. Welcome, kid.”


	13. Chapter 13

Being at Scotland HQ was something akin to being outside in the middle of a roiling thunderstorm. You cowered under the dark atmosphere, tense as you anticipated the next fork of lightning or crack of thunder, and you kind of _really_ wanted to get to shelter, away from the pelting rain, and _oh shit was that a funnel cloud_ \--

Buffy’s expression, as Giles entered the control room, was murderous.

<<giles,>> she greeted coldly. <<nice of you to agree to work with the team.>>

Giles visibly sucked in a breath, and his eyes sought out Andrew, who was lurking behind Buffy’s right shoulder. Andrew felt his face flush with guilt, and nervously, he fidgeted with the new glasses Willow had charmed for him.

<<i hear you have been informed about the prophecy of twilight,>> Giles commented, finally looking back to Buffy.

<<yeah,>> Buffy shot back. <<which is great because i’m not only fighting twilight you know. i’m apparently part of the prophecy? and twilight might be my ex?>>

<<i swear i had not heard angel was involved,>> Giles said.

<<that’s what you took out of that?>>

<<i can defend my decisions if you like,>> Giles began.

But Buffy cut him off. <<don’t bother. i can figure it out. i remember your incredible lack of reaction to faith attempting to drown me. that was because you were gearing up to commit the crime yourself. wasn’t it?>>

Xander and Willow shot each other startled glances, both looking too shocked to react. On the other hand, Dawn -- now shrunk to human size and perfectly capable of joining them in the castle -- fixed Giles with a glare as thunderous as Buffy’s. The air in the room almost crackled. Andrew shrank back.  

Buffy spun away from Giles and stared unseeingly at a computer screen behind her. She continued: <<is this what being a watcher means to you? lining slayers up for the slaughter without even mentioning prophecies that foretell their role in the end of everything? i have half a mind to name andrew my watcher instead.>>

“I’m not a Watcher anymore,” Andrew muttered, as if that were somehow the salient point.

Giles’ back had gone stiff, his lips pressed tightly together. He looked, in that moment, to be the epitome of the aloof Watcher that the Council had always advocated. The kind of Watcher Andrew had once thought Giles could never be.

<<i thought you made it quite clear some time ago you no longer required my services as a watcher.>>

<<maybe,>> Buffy replied. <<but i thought i could still count you as my friend. friends don’t plot to murder friends.>>

<<buffy,>> Giles tried.

<<don’t,>> she retorted. <<i don’t want to hear it. just go. one of xander’s slayers will listen to what you know and then get you quarters. stay there until we’re done.>>

Giles watched her quietly for a moment, and Buffy turned to meet his gaze. Her expression was like stone. Without another word, Giles turned away and left the room.

When Buffy looked to Andrew, he flinched. But Buffy only passed by him to walk to the computer and then said: <<so your source thinks twilight is angel?>>

“Uh-huh,” Andrew replied nervously. “Um. Apparently Angel’s been off the grid for a while.”

<<radio silence doesn’t necessarily mean he’s off playing masked villain,>> Xander pointed out. <<he could have just decided it was time to take a trip to the bahamas.>>

“My source was really sure!” Andrew insisted.

<<who is this source anyway?>> Buffy asked.

“I can’t say,” he muttered. “I, um. I promised.”

<<andrew if you’re consorting with demons again,>> Buffy said warningly.

“I’m not! I swear! He just wants his privacy.”

Buffy frowned at him suspiciously, but she didn’t press. <<well it’s more of a lead than anything we have. willow can you look into it? see if you can dig up any evidence to back up andrew’s source.>>

<<yeah no problem,>> Willow replied.  

<<how are angel and i supposed to destroy the world anyway?>> Buffy asked.

“The realm,” Andrew corrected. “And, uh, I dunno exactly. The prophecy just said something about coming together, but it wasn’t much more specific than that.”

<<if twilight really is angel that would make sense,>> Xander said wryly. <<you two haven’t exactly had a great track record with. you know. coming together.>>  

Buffy shot him a look, and Dawn snapped: <<really xander? was that necessary?>>

<<sorry,>> Xander replied quickly. He at least looked properly chagrinned.

Buffy held his gaze for a moment, then looked back to Andrew. <<did you say you made up a file with everything about the prophecy on it?>>

“Yeah. Here.” Andrew pulled a USB jump drive out of his pocket and passed it over.

Buffy took it and plugged it into the computer’s tower. She was pulling up the files when, suddenly, Xander, Willow, and Dawn, all looked around. Buffy’s gaze also flickered back, for just a moment.

Andrew followed their attention. At the open door, Renee was standing to one side, her hand still lifted to knock at the wall.

<<sorry to interrupt. i just wanted to know if mr. harris needed me to take over weapons training today?>>

At that, Andrew’s shoulders slumped minutely, but no one else noticed.

<<no it’s fine,>> Xander replied quickly. <<buffy do you need me right now?>>

Buffy waved a hand. <<go. attend to your squad.>>

Xander nodded curtly, then hurried out the door. Renee followed after him.

\----

“So, we’re back to ‘ _Mr. Harris_ ’?” Xander said. His voice was teasing, but there was a shadow of hurt in his eyes.

Renee shrugged as they turned a corner toward the stairwell. She smiled, a little apologetic. “You were in a meeting. Wasn’t exactly personal business.”

“Come on. None of _them_ call me ‘Mr. Harris’. Not even Andrew, who still won’t drop the ‘Mr.’ for Giles. In fact, he even calls me ‘pirate’ when he’s signing.”

Renee huffed a laugh. Xander liked to complain frequently about the shorthand name Andrew had assigned to him, but when the first letter of Xander’s name was a hooked finger and ‘pirate’ was a covered eye, ‘Pirate X’ was the _only_ name that made sense. And besides, as much as Xander grumbled, it was always with a grin.

“Sorry, _Xander_ ,” Renee said.

Xander visibly relaxed. “Apology accepted,” he said lightly. “So, anyway. Remember that date we were talking about? We never got to do it since I got stabbed and ended up lazing about in bed for ages. But now I’m up and mobile again, so what d’you say we make plans?”

But, to Xander’s surprise, Renee winced. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“ _What_? But . . . I thought _you_ were the one who told me ask you out!”

“Yeah, I was. And at the time, I really wanted you to. But I don’t think it’ll work anymore.”

“But why?”

Renee was quiet for a moment, carefully putting her words together. Then, gently, she said: “You don’t know what it was like when you got hurt. I’ve never understood that phrase ‘sick with worry’ as much as I did when I heard you’d been stabbed. I actually felt like I was about to throw up. And that didn’t go away. Any time I looked at you, waiting for you to wake up; any time I even thought about you . . . I was nauseous for a week straight.”

Renee met his eyes then, and there was a sad weariness in her expression.

“I was in charge when you were unconscious. Of course, Buffy, Andrew, and Willow all helped when they could, but I’m still deputy of Scotland Squad. And I could hardly think straight all week. If we started dating, I think that would only get worse when things go wrong. I’m a Slayer, Xander. I need to be focused. And if the situation were reversed; if I were the one who got hurt . . . well, maybe you’d be able to put your feelings aside, I don’t know. But _I_ can’t. So, I’m sorry. I can’t go out with you.”

Xander didn’t know what to say. He stared at Renee, feeling his chest tighten to the point of pain. “You’re sure?” he said weakly.

“Yeah. I’m really sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Xander murmured. “I hadn’t thought -- and I should have. I’ve watched people I love get hurt right in front of me. I’ve seen people die. I know what that’s like, and maybe to some extent I’ve gotten used to living with it. But you . . . you shouldn’t ever have to get used to that.”

Renee smiled sadly. “Well, I’ll never be able to avoid it entirely. But I can do what I can so that it doesn’t interfere with my job.”

“Roger that,” Xander managed to say.

“By the way,” Renee continued. “I know you’re probably not ready right now, but when you are: I know someone lately has had a bit of a _giant_ crush on you.”

Xander blinked. “Huh? What? . . . Who?”

Renee laughed, and pushed open the door at the bottom of the stairs. “Not my place to say. But when it’s time for you to know, I’m sure you’ll know.”

\----

There was a pitch-black tear in Jonathan’s heaven again.

Jenny had reopened the old portal they’d used during the first trip down to hell, and now she, Jonathan, Dennis, and Cordelia were all sitting at odd points around the perimeter, taking turns peering into the impenetrable depths. It had been about two hours since Doyle had stepped through. He’d gone alone, because Cordelia and Jenny both felt Doyle could more than handle himself in hell.

And now, they were waiting.

Jenny kept her gaze trained on the portal the whole time, murmuring occasionally as she held the entrance open. Cordelia was occupying herself with a large stack of higher power paperwork that floated in the air beside her. Jonathan and Dennis were talking in low, serious voices.

“So, that was the extent of my involvement with Tara. I swear, Andrew and I had _no_ idea what was happening.”

Dennis nodded solemnly. “Why were you friends with this Warren fellow, anyway?”

“Because I was an idiot and a coward,” Jonathan muttered. “Warren and Andrew were the only real friends I’d ever had, and I didn’t know what to do when everything started going weird.”

“Sounds to me that they were never _real_ friends to you at all.”  

Jonathan blinked in surprise. That sounded almost . . . sympathetic. Of course, Dennis was among some of the kindest souls Jonathan had met in heaven, but for that gentleness to be directed at _him_ . . . he hadn’t expected to hear it again. Not since Katrina. “I, uh, suppose.”

Dennis smiled wryly, but he didn’t seem to have anything further to say.

A sudden crackle in the air made them both twist around. The portal had stretched wide, and the blue sparks around the edge brightened; they were stronger and more active, spitting and hissing like firecrackers.

“Doyle,” Dennis said. “He must be coming back!”

“About time,” Cordelia muttered. “I was running out of busywork.” She snapped her fingers, and the stack of papers vanished.

A second later, the portal convulsed -- and out from the very center of the black pit, tumbled Doyle. He landed on all fours in the dirt of Jonathan’s heaven, and for a long minute, he stayed like that. He was visibly trembling. Behind him, the portal winked out.

Dennis hurried forward, and helped Doyle to his feet with gentle hands. Doyle stood obligingly, but he wrapped his arms around himself, his shoulders shuddering.

“Are you okay?” Dennis said worriedly.

“P-peachy,” Doyle managed to choke out, between chattering teeth. “‘S l-like a gl-glacier down there.”

“You mean the hell sensation?” Jonathan asked.

“Y-yeah. Hell d-decided t-t-to freeze over t-today.”

“Let’s give him a moment,” Jenny said firmly. “Let him relax before we start demanding answers of him.”

But Doyle shook his head, still absently rubbing one arm with his opposite hand. “N-no need. Caught up with W-wesley just fine. By the way,” he added, turning to look at Cordelia, “ _that’s_ who y-you replaced me with? I’m hurt. Bloke’s not half as fun as me.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes. “You’ll survive. What did Wesley say?”

Doyle was apparently beginning to warm up. He was still rubbing his arms, but his teeth had stopped chattering, and his shivering had subsided. “Says it’s as a good plan as he’s heard. Tara’s right ‘bout the portals not just being for human spirits. Problem is, Twilight’s a bit of a powerful entity. It’s gonna take more than a portal opened by a single human soul to take it down.”

“So it won’t work?” Jonathan said.

“Didn’t say that, now did I?” Doyle replied. “Just said that it’s gonna take more than a one-soul portal like the one Jenny’s so nicely opened up for us here.”

Jonathan frowned. “You mean, a portal made by multiple people? What does that do?”

“Makes the portal a lot more stable, for one thing,” Jenny said. “But I think more of what Wesley means is that the portal I have here is completely voluntary. You can step in it, or you can stay away. Completely up to you. And I’m not sure Twilight will willingly step through a trap, no matter how nicely we lay it at its feet. But the more people we have behind the portal, the more we can create a _suction_.”

“Enough to grab Twilight against its will?”

“That’s the idea,” Doyle agreed.

“That’s what you said when I first told you the idea,” Cordelia commented, looking at Jenny. “Looks like you were right.”

“Yeah. I just wasn’t sure -- I’ve learned a lot of this through word-of-mouth up here. It’s good that our researcher agrees.” But then, a shadow came over her expression. She turned to Doyle. “But there’s a complication, isn’t there?”

Solemnly, Doyle nodded.

“What’s wrong?” Dennis asked.

“Twilight isn’t the only metaphysical thing inhabiting Angel’s body right now,” Doyle said darkly. “Angel’s soul is going to be in the line of fire.”

Dennis’ eyes went round, and he swung his head to stare at Cordelia. “Cordy--”

But Cordelia’s expression was impassive. “We’ll figure something out,” she said curtly. The only sign of how deeply this development worried her was the hard line of her shoulders, which had suddenly gone as stiff as stone.

“We will,” Doyle agreed. “Angelus might not be Twilight-level bad news, but he’s still nothing to sneeze at. For now, though, let’s just focus on getting us the firepower we need.”

“More souls,” Jenny said, with the air of someone who was quite happy to change the subject. “Those with a background in magic would best, because it’s a similar process, but we’ll make do with what we can.”

“I’ll help,” Jonathan said immediately.

Jenny turned to look at him, and Jonathan shifted his weight nervously. He shrugged.

“I mentioned I knew magic, right? So, uh. I can help.”

“That’s kind of you,” Jenny told him. “I think we’ll probably be using every Sunnydale volunteer we have. That’s what -- two hundred souls?”

“Two hundred nineteen common souls and one higher power,” Cordelia answered.

Jonathan felt his ears go red. Of course -- he was just one of literally hundreds of volunteers. His help had probably been a given, before he’d unnecessarily drawn attention to it. As if somehow he’d thought his power was consequential.

“It’s going to be a challenge to arrange to train over two hundred souls in portal work,” Jenny commented, apparently not noticing Jonathan’s embarrassment. “That’s a class size I’ve thankfully never had to deal with, no matter what budget cuts the public school system faced.”

“Work with Doyle,” Cordelia said. “He’s had experience making lesson plans, too.”

“My students were third graders!” Doyle protested. “And I was teaching them how to divide eighteen by nine, not how to open metaphysical portals!”

“I’m not sure high school computer science is much more relevant,” Jenny commented wryly. “If you don’t mind, it might be good just to have another perspective.”

Doyle frowned. “Well, alright. But I warn you: I am way out of my depth.”

“Hey -- Jenny!”

Dennis’ sudden shout made them all jump. There was a tense undercurrent in his voice; they swung to look at him. Dennis was staring past them all, over Doyle’s right shoulder.

“Jenny,” he said again. “Is your portal supposed to be opening again?”

Jonathan spun around.

The dark tear was forming in the fabric of his heaven again, gaping wide like the maw of an enormous beast. But something was different -- the sparks around the edges weren’t blue anymore, but an intense, blinding white that hurt Jonathan’s eyes.

“What the--?,” Cordelia said. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know!” Jenny cried. She held out a hand and clenched the fingers into a fist, clearly trying to squeeze the portal shut again. But it did not respond to her urging, and the black pit stretched wider. It was the size of a full-grown man now, and the sparks were somehow even _brighter_.

Jonathan stumbled back, shielding his eyes. His heart was pounding. Something was trying to get into his heaven, and he didn’t know what. But this was supposed to be _his_ heaven. His domain. His refuge. He squeezed his eyes shut, shoving out with his mind to push back the intruder.

And then --

“There is no need to fear us,” said an unfamiliar voice.

And Doyle said: “What are _you_ doing here?”

Jonathan blinked his eyes open. And he stared.

There were two people standing in front of them, but they weren’t like any people Jonathan had ever seen before. They both looked to be made of living gold, with a metallic sheen to their skin and hair, and there were blue swirls patterned down their faces and arms and chests -- probably all the way under their black tunics too. One was male; the other female.

They were both peering serenely at Doyle, and it was the girl, with long black curls piled up on the top of her head, who spoke first: “We are here as messengers of the Powers That Be.”

“About freaking _time_ ,” Cordelia snapped. “I’ve been meaning to give them a piece of my mind for _ages_.”

The boy turned to look at her. “We are here to tell you to desist your activities.”

“Twilight _will_ come,” said the girl.

“Fat chance,” retorted Cordelia.

And now there was a sad look in the boy’s expression. “Cordelia Chase, you are one of us. We would have hoped a higher power would understand the necessities of fate.”

“‘Necessities of fate’?” she mimicked incredulously. “You mean, the end of everything? Earth, heaven, hell, _everything_? Before I’ve even gotten the chance to enjoy the paradise I very well damn earned?!”

“Our realm must die,” said the girl.

“It is time for a new one to take its place,” finished the boy.

But Cordelia meet their gazes, her own eyes steely. “No. Goddamn. Way.”

“Come on, be reasonable,” Doyle said, drawing the newcomers’ attention back to him. “You want us to give up on all those billions of innocent souls down there? Why would the Powers want that? I thought they give me the visions in the first place so we could _protect_ the poor sods.”

“It was their turn. It is no longer,” replied the boy.

A wounded expression crossed Doyle’s face, making him look oddly small.

“Do not follow this plot,” said the girl, and her gaze swept over each of them in turn: Doyle, Dennis, Jonathan, Cordelia, Jenny. “You must not interfere.”

“The Powers do not wish to take action against you,” said the boy.

Jenny crossed her arms, and her lips pressed tightly together. “Are the Powers That Be threatening human souls now?”

“You must not interfere,” the girl replied simply.

“Or _what_?” Jonathan demanded.

His voice was so sharp that Dennis jumped. Even the strange, metallic newcomers blinked at his outburst. They turned, and stared impassively at him.

Jonathan swallowed, suddenly uneasy to have all gazes fixed on him. But these _beings_ had just burst into his heaven and demanded he roll over and accept the end of everything.

“Or what?” he said again. “Are you gonna throw us out of heaven? Because -- because if being in heaven means blindly following the Powers’ orders, I don’t just _follow_ orders anymore.”

As he stared back at the messengers of the Powers, he saw Cordelia looking at him out of the corner of his gaze. There was a gleam in her eye. It looked almost proud.

The messengers, however, looked unfazed.

“Do _not_ interfere,” they intoned as one.

Then the portal split open again, and as Jonathan reeled back from the blinding light, they stepped into the depths, and were gone.

“ _Assholes_ ,” Cordelia said vehemently, when the portal had winked out again. “They didn’t even let me finish telling them exactly what _carefully chosen words_ to bring back to the Powers.” She huffed, then turned back to the others. “Come on, let’s finish planning this thing.”

“But Cordelia--”

“Yes, Jonathan?”

“Um,” Jonathan said. His moment of bravery had drained away, and he was left feeling as if his knees were made of water. “Are the Powers _really_ going to try to stop us? How are we going to go up against the _Powers_?”

“Where have you been, huh? We’ve been going up against the Powers this whole time.”

“Yeah, but . . . they haven’t actually been active before. What are we going to do when they start really using their power?”

There was steel in Cordelia’s expression. “The Powers’ influence doesn’t reach everywhere, no matter what they want you to think.”

\----

“Mr. Giles? Mr. Giles? It’s me, Andrew. Mr. Giles?”

Giles sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ignore the headache pounding behind his temples. One of Xander’s Slayers -- Rowena, she had called herself -- had led him down to a spare room and left him to it, about twenty minutes ago. Giles had thought to take advantage of the solitude, to take a brief respite from the tension of HQ. But hardly had he finished putting his clothing in the provided drawers and opened a notebook, that Andrew had started knocking.

“Mr. Giles, are you there?” Andrew called again, in his too-loud voice.

It was tempting to pretend _not_ to be. Perhaps Andrew would think he had slipped out for a walk, and would leave him in peace for at least another half hour.

But then Andrew knocked again, and said, whining now: “Mr. Gi- _les_?”

And so, deciding not to be unkind to the boy, Giles sighed, and picked himself up from the desk. He crossed over to the other side of the room and pulled open the door.

He looked down at Andrew, wordlessly demanding to know what he needed.

Andrew was fidgeting with his new enchanted glasses, which had smaller lenses than his last set and a dark top frame. Between the new glasses and his soft green pullover sweatshirt, which actually fit properly for once, Andrew looked oddly older than Giles remembered him being.

At the sight of Giles, Andrew brightened. “Mr. Giles! Um, hey, I just wanted -- um. Can I come in?”

Giles frowned, but obligingly stepped aside.

“Thanks,” Andrew said, as he walked in. He came into the middle of the room, then turned to look back at Giles. He was plucking at a few loose threads at the sleeve of his sweatshirt, and he seemed to be cowering. But when Giles looked at him, he didn’t flinch away.

Giles moved back to the desk and sat down. He gestured for Andrew to sit, or start talking, or -- well, not just stand there.

“Um,” Andrew said. “Well, uh, I just wanted to say sorry about telling Buffy about Twilight. Except -- I’m not sorry. I-I know you were trying to protect her, but Buffy’s really strong, you know? I mean, trying to protect her is totally worthy, but it’s kind of hard to do the whole hero’s journey when you only know half the truth.”

Giles couldn’t even bring himself to react when Andrew started talking in story terms again. That would require energy -- and for what? Buffy knew the prophecy. Buffy had put two and two together about his Plan Z, and she hated him. Did it matter if the boy knew the difference between reality and fiction?

Giles simply said: “What’s done is done.”

Andrew nodded solemnly.

“Yeah. Um, but I know people are mad at you now. But I just wanted to say that I, um. I, too, have kept secrets from a friend. And I, too, have plotted to kill a friend. I mean, I murdered Jonathan.”

Giles looked at Andrew then, surprise flitting across his expression. Andrew rarely talked so candidly about Jonathan. It was always allegories and allusions and guilty flinches -- but Andrew only said the ‘m’ word when he was at the end of his tether. But Andrew didn’t look to be at the end of his tether now.

“It wasn’t exactly the same,” Andrew hurried on, “because I didn’t _know_ Jonathan would stay dead. I thought it was this kind of temporary killing thing, and that yeah, there’d probably be some bad side effects because listening to ghosts in Mexico is really a bad idea, but that _he’d_ be okay after everything. But I, uh. I was wrong, and I still planned it. And it also wasn’t the same as what you did, because I actually did it.”

Awkwardly, he shrugged.

“So, I just wanted to say that if you ever need to talk to someone, I kinda get it. I’ve also had to seek redemption.”

Redemption. Of course. Giles almost sighed. Andrew didn’t understand -- there was no _redemption_ , no quest for forgiveness. Giles had long passed the time where personal quests were of any consequence. He didn’t have the luxury to worry about such things.

To Andrew, he only said: “I am only concerned with stopping Twilight.”

“Okay,” Andrew said, although he looked uncertain. “I, um. I know you only wanted to save the world. And I think . . . I think the others know that, too. I think they’ll forgive you.”

Giles felt a surge of anger toward Andrew. Forgiveness? Andrew had blood on his hands, too. Hadn’t he realized that nothing scrubbed that away? Giles’ crimes had begun long before Twilight, and it was foolish to worry about something so insubstantial as _forgiveness_.

But Andrew misread the tension in his expression, because he added: “They will! I mean, Jonathan forgave me for trying to ditch him at the amusement park, and I didn’t even have a good reason for doing that.”

 _And look where that got him_ , Giles didn’t say. He didn’t have to. The raw guilt was already welling up in Andrew’s eyes.

“Do you need to be at central command?” Giles asked. He was beginning to think it was a mistake to let Andrew in, and he could only hope that Andrew left quickly.

“Um. Yeah. In a second,” Andrew said. “I just . . . I wanted to tell you that.”

And Giles felt some of his anger drain away. Maybe there was blood on Andrew’s hands. Maybe Andrew should know better than to believe forgiveness could change anything. But he had only sought to tend to Giles’ feelings, and as misguided as his actions were . . . well, perhaps the boy hadn’t lost all his innocence after all.

Giles heard a buzz, and Andrew pulled his phone out of his pocket.

He brightened. “It’s Xander. He wants to know if I want to arrange movie night for Scotland Squad,” he announced, as if this were somehow relevant to Giles. “Ooh, maybe we could do _Casino Royale_? What do you think? Buffy kinda liked that one.”

Before Giles could even open his mouth, Andrew continued.

“Oh, but Italy Squad has been moving away from action movies, because a lot of them are tired after training and everything,” he mused aloud. “Some of Scotland Squad probably feels that way, too, right? So, uh, maybe _Mamma Mia_.”

As he headed toward the door, he typed quickly on his phone. When he reached the doorway, he paused, and looked back to Giles.

“Um. So, uh, think about what I said, okay? If you ever need to talk, just text me. Or, um, I brought a few of my Squad with me to talk to the Scotland Slayers about training stuff, and Melanie’s really good with this kind of stuff. Not that she has our experience, but she’s a good listener. You can talk to her, too.”

Bemused, Giles nodded.  

\----

“ _The Powers influence doesn’t reach everywhere_ ,” Cordelia had said. And that was true. But in heaven, the Powers’ influence was uncontested.

The Oracles, The Knowing Ones, watched impassively from another plane as each of the small gang of dissenters peeled off from their gathering and returned to their own heavens. As each one stepped into their own bondage --

Doyle left first. His heaven was an isolated one, filled only with a physical sense of joy swirling around like mist. Joy -- the kind of joy of watching children grow, of pride when you helped a student realize for the first time she _could_ bring home an A. The kind of joy that comes without burdens except the ones you chose, the kind of joy he’d once thought consumed forever by the demon blood in his veins. He relaxed, and let his presence permeate through his heaven.  

It would be some time before he realized anything was wrong --

But the moment Jenny stepped onto the boardwalk, she saw the isolation sprawled out for miles in front of her. The boardwalk wound down around the bends of the beach, on and on, until it shrank out of view far in the distance. And all along it’s length, on the planks, on the beach below, in the water, in the city behind her . . . there was not one soul.

 _No_ , Jenny thought, and she raced down the boardwalk. _No, no --_

“No,” Dennis choked out. “Oh god no, _please_!”

He hadn’t even had to see the emptiness. His throat had closed up as soon as he stepped back into the hills of his heaven, somehow sensing the walls shut down behind him. The landscape stretched out in front of him, wide and open and unchained, but every inch of him screamed it was a lie. He reached for Jonathan’s heaven, for Cordelia’s, but to no avail; there were walls around him, and he was trapped trapped trapped and it was all he could do to grab onto that tendril of peace wrapped around his heaven and hang onto it with every ounce of will he had as images flashed through his mind of being tied in a wall and bricks laid in front of his face and the fear of _what happens when the oxygen runs out, Mama please, Mama no, Mama you’re going to kill me --_

Jonathan stared, numb, at the deserted clearing in his woods. It couldn’t be gone. He’d only just linked; he’d only just found the companionship of the comic book souls. It couldn’t be gone; it couldn’t be; it just wasn’t _fair_!

He paced around the clearing as if it would bring back the cabin, but the leaves only stirred at his feet, and an angry wind whipped through the trees, and no cabin reemerged. Cordelia would understand, Jonathan thought quickly. Cordelia would know what was going on. But as he turned, fixated on bursting into the lobby of Cordelia’s heaven . . . nothing happened. The sidewalk did not appear at his feet; the hotel did not sprout in front of his eyes. Forest stayed forest. Dirt stayed dirt. Furious, scared, and hurt, Jonathan yelled out: “Cordelia!” --

But Cordelia did not hear him.

She stood in the lobby of a hotel that was emptier than even the Hyperion had ever been. Empty, and cold, and -- this was _not_ her paradise!

She reached out with her mind and felt a surge of cold fury as she found the walls surrounding her heaven -- walls that were cutting off every soul who shared this place, shoving them all into little personal, _lonely_ bubbles. She threw the might of her will against the walls, urging them to crumble. But they held firm.

And again, and again: she threw her mind against the walls, summoning every scrap of power she could muster. And again and again: the walls did not fall. She kept pushing, until a migraine mounted in her head, and kept pushing, until it was a pain worse than any vision she’d had.

But in heaven, even a higher power could not challenge the Powers That Be.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [AJ](http://darkwingdukat.tumblr.com) this chapter, whose RP of Dennis in the [Heavenbuddies RP](http://heavenbuddies.tumblr.com) more than a little inspired the portrayal of Dennis' claustrophobia this chapter.


	14. Chapter 14

“Let me out!” Jonathan yelled.

The leaves merely rustled in reply.

Jonathan huffed a furious breath and spun around. He began to walk, barely seeing the forest as he strode through the thick of the trees. He picked up his pace.

A moment later, he was running at breakneck speed, his eyes screwed shut as he concentrated on emerging in another heaven -- Cordelia’s, Dennis’, Doyle’s, Jenny’s, _anyone’s_. The trees jumped out of his way, and he ran, on and on and on. But the forest floor did not harden into concrete; the breeze did not grow salty with ocean air.

Jonathan collapsed at the edge of his stream, his sides heaving. Still in his own heaven. Still alone.

“ _Fuck_!”

\----

The military barracks Twilight had set up in had become absolutely _stifling_ ; to some extent, Amy was looking forward to her next mission. Anything to get away from this crapshoot for a bit. At least this time, she wasn’t becoming a rat.

“What, you’re leaving already?”

Amy heaved a sigh at the whiny grumble. She turned. Warren was leaning heavily against the doorway of the spartan tactical center, scowling.

“Yes,” Amy said. “God, don’t tell me you’ve gotten clingy.”

Warren glared. “You wish. Don’t you think you should probably check my spell again before you leave? I told you, I feel sick.”

Warren _did_ look awful. And it wasn’t just the whole skinless thing, either. His eyes were bloodshot and weary, and every limb in his body seemed to slump. His entire presence exuded exhaustion.

But Amy just rolled her eyes and said: “What do you expect? If you want to feel healthy as a horse, then don’t get yourself skinned by a psychotic witch.”

“But it’s getting worse.”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?” Amy snapped. “Most people would be _grateful_ for that.”

Warren scowled. “Look, I’m just asking you to double-check the spell isn’t coming undone. I kind of don’t want to die just because you didn’t bother to do proper maintenance on your work.”   

“Tell you what,” Amy said. She stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder, ignoring the way Warren shuddered at the wave of nausea that rose up in him. “I’ll only be gone a few days. You still feel this shitty when I get back, I’ll look into making up some more spells for you. Deal?”

“You sure I won’t die?”

Warren sounded worried. Amy almost felt bad for him. “I know what I’m doing. The spell’s working perfectly.”

“Fine,” Warren replied. “But you better find a way to make this go away when you get back.”

“Yeah, whatever you say.”

Amy didn’t wait around for him to say anything else -- it wasn’t as if Warren would ever bother to wish her luck on a mission or tell her to come back soon, anyway. She turned, and strode away.

Mid-pace, magic gripped her: her back angled, her arms reaching toward the ground as her legs shortened. Her ears pointed; clothing became fur; a tail swung out behind her. As the pads of her forepaws hit the ground, Amy opened her mouth and let the scents of the military barracks hit the roof of her mouth.

Ugh. A feline sense of smell had its drawbacks.

And then she was a cat, as convincing as any that had been with four legs and whiskers and the insatiable need to hunt small rodents.

Amy flicked her Siamese-patterned tail, and vanished in a flash of yellow light.

\----

The first step was to infiltrate Slayer Organization’s central headquarters. It was almost disgustingly easy; all Amy had to do was stroll around the perimeter of the warding spells until she ran into a patrol. She wandered up to them, fresh mud clinging to her fur for that authentic needy stray appearance, and mewed pitifully.

And then it was all: “Oh, look at the poor darling!” “It’s so cute! Do you think we can keep it?” “Why not? The castle has a mouse problem anyway.”

And that was all it took for the warding spells to let her in. Amy had to give Willow credit; there was no spell she could do to force an invitation or trick the wards into thinking she was _actually_ a harmless cat, but apparently there was very little Willow could do to protect her headquarters against the charm of feline cuteness.

The living quarters Amy was deposited in were chilly and a little damp, but the three Slayers who’d found her put a plate of minced tuna on the floor -- not cat food, thank _god_ \-- and so Amy occupied herself with picking at their offering as her ears swivelled about to catch their conversation.

The first several minutes were simply filled with the inane chatter of “so _cuuute_!”, but eventually the girls settled down to scratch aimlessly at Amy’s ears while their conversation turned to more serious matters.

“I got an email from Elizabeth this morning,” said one of the girls, who was running her fingers through the fur on Amy’s back. “Did you hear about what’s going on in Italy Squad?”

“You mean how Mr. Wells stepped down as Watcher?”

“Yeah. But it wasn’t just like he didn’t want to do it anymore, you know? Their Squad started talking about being in charge of themselves and taking on more command stuff on their own.”

The third girl, who had thus far been quiet, even as the other two gushed over how _soft_ Amy’s fur was and how _blue_ her eyes were, spoke: “Are you thinking they had the right idea, Jenna?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Yes.” Jenna shrugged. “I mean, Mr. Harris isn’t any less vulnerable than Mr. Wells. Remember when he got hurt in Japan?”

“It worked out okay,” said the second girl.

“Yeah, kind of. Renee held us together, but that could have gone a lot worse. Renee could barely hold _herself_ together, and none of us were prepared for what would happen if we long-term lost Mr. Harris.”

The second girl frowned. “I suppose I get what you’re saying. But, like, Mr. Harris is pretty good at his job, and I’m not sure we could do a better job.”

“That’s a good argument for why we _should_ be able to,” pointed out the third Slayer. “He can help us learn how to handle it, but say we lost him suddenly? We would be, well, fucked.”

“And Italy Squad isn’t the first Squad without a Watcher,” Jenna argued. “There aren’t enough Watchers, so Chicago Squad, Tokyo Squad, Barcelona Squad? They’re _all_ Slayer-run, and they do okay.”

“But they’re more dependent on us for commands,” said the second girl. “They don’t have as much Squad autonomy.”

“I think they do,” Jenna replied. “Sure, they get general orders from central command, but they get freedom in how to execute them and run day-to-day stuff, which we don’t have any practice doing.”

“I just don’t know,” said the second girl uneasily.

The third girl shrugged. “Maybe Jenna has a point. She’s not the only one talking about it, either.”

The other two turned to look at her. Amy blinked up at her as well.

“Really?” Jenna asked.

“Yeah. Leah and Rowena were talking about it over breakfast this morning, too. And Kyla and Stella were asking the Italy Squad visitors a _lot_ of questions yesterday. I think we’re going to have to talk about it as a Squad, sooner rather than later.”

“Oh,” Jenna said quietly. Now that her ideas were a little closer to reality, she looked less sure of herself. But she nodded approvingly, and said: “Good.”

Slayers were questioning the validity of the Organization’s leadership. _Interesting_. Amy turned her head to lick at Jenna’s hand, as thanks for the information.

\----

If Italy Squad had recently done away with their Watcher, the group might be unstable and vulnerable. To confirm this, Amy decided to seek out the Italy Squad visitors. She managed to slip out of the Slayer quarters after about an hour, and wandered through the halls in search of the Italian Slayers. She didn’t exactly know where they might be, so she headed down to the mess hall and the lounge, keeping her ears on the swivel for anyone who might seem out of place.

Either there were no Italy Squad members in the mess, or they had managed to fit in quite well. Amy skirted around the corners, managing to dodge the more grabby cat-happy Slayers and support staff, then slipped back out and down the hall to the lounge.

Amy was just as unlucky in the lounge. There was just one Slayer there, and she was fast asleep, dirt from the night patrol still clinging to her jeans. Unlikely to be Italy Squad, and even less likely to divulge any secrets. Amy whipped her tail in frustration.

She padded back into the hallway, considering where else she might find an Italy Squad member, or if she should just abandon this line of inquiry and head up to central command. But Amy was determined to do a thorough job. She didn’t want to give up before she determined the extent of the changes to one of the Organization’s ten squads.

As she turned a corner on the tenth floor, she found two Slayers sitting together in a wide windowsill, a notebook open in front of them. They were . . . snuggly, to say the least. One of the girls had her back up against the side of the windowsill, while the other sat between her legs and leaned against her chest. They were both peering down out the window, even as the first girl ran her fingers through the other’s pixie cut of blonde hair. It was an absent-minded kind of cuddling, the type that came with comfortable familiarity, and the type that Amy and Warren wouldn’t be caught dead doing.

But it was the girls’ conversation that perked Amy’s ears. They were talking shop.

“I’m not sure, Maja,” said the first Slayer. “How are we going to apply this to Italy Squad? Our training center isn’t big enough for this.”

“But what about the terrain training center?”

“ _Terrain_ , remember? It’s not flat enough for this; the rocks and everything would cut people off from each other.”

“We could go to one of the parks,” Maja ventured.

“You want to do Squad-wide training in a public park? Slayers aren’t secret anymore, but come on.”

Definitely Italy Squad members. Amy mewed loudly and hopped up onto the windowsill.

At the sight of Amy, Maja squealed. “Oh, Puteri, look! I didn’t know they had a cat here!”

Puteri scowled slightly. “I don’t really like cats.”

Well, the feeling was mutual. Amy flicked her tail across Puteri’s nose as she leaned over the notebook clutched in Maja’s hands.

The page was filled with notes on Scotland Squad’s training. Amy had to back up a bit to read anything properly -- damn feline vision -- but she managed to pick up a few sentences about the individuals in charge of particular domains, weaknesses to address, and -- ah. On the opposite page, there was a handy table of training schedules, one for Scotland and one for Italy.

Amy hastened to memorize what she could. Scotland’s Wiccan training was at three in the afternoon four times a week. That meant that at three in the afternoon, four times a week, the magical defenses around Scotland HQ were at their weakest.

“What do you mean you don’t like cats?” Maja was saying to Puteri, with mock hurt. “I’m not sure we can come back from this.”

Puteri rolled her eyes. “I think we’ll survive.”

The tap of footsteps coming down the hall caught Amy’s attention. Her ears swiveled about, and she lifted her head, just in time to see Andrew Wells round the corner.

The retired Watcher interacting with his former charges. Amy sat up, and wrapped her tail around her front paws, her slit-pupil eyes gleaming with interest.

But Andrew’s expression did not register hurt or betrayal to see his old Squad members. His greeting smile was a little unsure, certainly, but it appeared genuine.

“Oh, hey, Maja, Puteri. What are you up to? Ooh, since when has Scotland HQ had a cat?”

“Since now, apparently,” Maja replied, scratching Amy behind the ears.

“And we’re watching training,” Puteri replied, and gestured toward the window. “We have a bird’s eye view up here. Melanie and Posey are working on the ground.”

Amy twitched her whiskers. Tactical intelligence reported that Andrew was _deaf_. Yet here his Slayers were, speaking to him aloud. Perhaps Andrew had learned to lip-read. But something niggled at the back of Amy’s mind, telling her there was more to it.

“Oh. Notice anything useful?”

“Maybe,” Maja said. “They do much larger group work here, and I marked down how the training leaders keep an eye on everyone.”

“But we don’t have the kind of open space they do,” Puteri added. “Except at the terrain training center, but the elevation’s all off. The training leaders wouldn’t have the same line of sight.”

“Can I see your notes?” Andrew asked.

Maja flipped the page over to a crudely drawn map, and passed it over.

Andrew made a small ‘hmm’ noise, peering at the map through his glasses. “We could use the elevation to our advantage. Just have to make sure all the leaders are at the high points. But, uh -- this kind of formation is kind of army-y. Which isn’t very Slayer-y.”

“Apparently Scotland Squad thinks it’s Slayer-y now,” Puteri said, shrugging. “For some reason, they think it’s important.”

“I could ask Xander about it?” Andrew suggested. “I’m supposed to be meeting him at central command now.”

Maja nodded. “Good idea. And we’ll pass what you said about elevation onto Melanie for when she makes up the training plans.”

Andrew smiled. “Cool. Well, good luck. I better get to central command. See you guys later?”

Maja and Puteri both sounded farewells, and Andrew started off again.

Amy’s tail twitched. She’d only witnessed a short conversation between Andrew and the Slayers, but it seemed Italy Squad was _not_ on the verge of collapse due to lack of leadership. Andrew didn’t even exhibit any resentment that Twilight’s team might have been able to exploit. Unfortunate.

But Andrew was headed toward central command; perhaps there would be better news there.

Ignoring Maja’s cry of protest, Amy dug her hind claws into her leg to vault back onto the floor. The moment her paws hit the ground, she hurried down the hall after Andrew.

“Hi, Mr. Kitty,” Andrew said, when Amy drew up next to him. Amy resisted the urge to nip his ankles.

They made their way up to the top floor of the castle, and when Andrew pulled open the door to central command, Amy slipped in before he could try to shut her out.

Buffy, Willow, Xander, and Dawn were already in the room. Buffy was sitting at the desk, Willow perched on the table itself, and Xander and Dawn were chatting off to one side. As the door cracked open, they all looked over to it, and Xander’s good eye widened.

“Whoa, there’s a cat!”

“Yeah, Maja and Puteri were playing with it, and it decided to follow me,” said Andrew, as he came in after Amy. “It’s not yours?”

“No,” Xander said, crouching down to reach out to Amy. And as much as Amy did _not_ want to be petted by Xander Harris, she needed the Slayer Organization leaders to underestimate her; she pressed her face into his hand, purring.

“Aw, it’s so cute!” Dawn exclaimed. She bent down next to Xander to pat Amy’s back. “I bet it’s a stray someone’s been feeding.”

“However adorable the kitty is, maybe we should get to the meeting,” Buffy said.

Amy, now dodging Dawn’s attempt to pick her up, decided she liked Buffy more than she’d originally thought.

“Yeah, okay,” Andrew said. “But, uh, Xander -- Maja and Puteri said you’re moving away from small teams and going for big army training. What gives? I thought we were Rebel squadrons, not stormtroopers.”

“Well, yeah,” Xander replied. “But we don’t know what Twilight’s going to come at us with. As much as it’d be better to go at him with the small teams we’ve trained, we might not always get that luxury. I was just putting my team through a preliminary training system before I suggest it to the rest of the squads.”

“Oh. That makes sense.”

Willow hopped down from the table and leaned back, so that her hands were braced against the surface.

“Anyway, I looked into what Andrew’s source reported,” she said. “Looks like they were right. Twilight is Angel.”

Amy stiffened, feeling her fur bristle all along her back. Her golden eyes fixed unblinkingly on Willow. _What_? How on earth had the the Slayer Organization found out?

“You sure?” Xander asked. “I mean, sure, Angel was always bad news, but world domination? Unless he’s Angelus again?”

“Not Angelus -- I tracked him by his soul, and Twilight definitely has Angel’s soul,” Willow replied.

“And you’re defending Angel now?” Dawn put in. “I thought you were all tactless ‘there’s-totally-precedent’ last week.”

“I wasn’t being serious!”

Amy had to fight back a growl that was threatening to rumble in her chest. This was bad. If Slayer Organization had figured out Angel was the face behind the Twilight mask, the plan could be shot. Amy didn’t know all the details about Twilight’s plan, but she knew that Buffy trusting Angel was imperative to its success.

Amy swung her head to look at Buffy; Buffy’s expression was unreadable.

“Why the hell would Angel be involved in all this when he has his soul?”

Willow gave Buffy a small, rueful smile. “Don’t know, hon. All I know is that’s definitely Angel there.”

Wordlessly, Buffy nodded.

“So, what are we going to do?” Andrew asked nervously.

“Same as before,” Buffy replied. “Take Twilight down. Except this time, we’ll whittle a few more stakes for the fight.”

Amy needed to get back to the tactical center. She needed to get back _now_. Twilight needed to know that his identity had been revealed; they needed to plan, to make fallbacks. And most importantly, Amy needed to know that the power she’d been promised wasn’t slipping through her fingers. If Twilight had been compromised, perhaps it was time to jump ship.

Amy had the information she needed, and her disguise was no longer necessary. So she didn’t even bother to slip out of sight before reaching back for the magical tether that bound her to Twilight’s tactical center. She gave it a pull.

“Holy shi--” was the last thing Amy heard as she vanished in a flash of light.

\----

In heaven, Jonathan was miserable.

He’d tried everything, from shouting for Cordelia, to trying to force himself into any heaven he could think of, to scouring his woods on the _off-chance_ the comic store had just moved, to trying to force open the portals Jenny had once opened in his heaven. Nothing worked. He’d even tried to scry on Earth, but he hadn’t managed so much as a blurry image. The water’s reflection showed nothing but the trees overhead. Jonathan wasn’t just blocked anymore -- he’d been cut off entirely.

He sat at the edge of the stream, running his finger through the water. He felt drained, and exhausted, as if all his efforts to break free had sucked out his spirit.

It wasn’t fucking _fair_.

He’d only just connected with other heavens, only just started to make _friends_ , and he was fighting for the force of good, but now he’d lost everything. He was trapped in a paradise that wasn’t paradise at all. Jonathan felt the back of his throat burn, and he rubbed hard at his eyes with the heels of his palms.

That was when a surge of power spiked at the edge of his consciousness.

Jonathan twisted around.

Behind him, in between a pair of old oak trees, Jenny’s old portal was reopening. The black pit was slowly gaping wide, blue sparking along the edges. Jonathan scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding.

“Jenny?” he said nervously.

But when the portal opened properly, it wasn’t Jenny who stepped out. It was a guy, who went tumbling out of the mouth of the portal and hit the ground hard, rolling a few times before coming to a stop.

A guy, with dark hair, and a long face, and who was deeply familiar. It took Jonathan a second to place the name -- it had, after all, been almost a decade. But then, in a stunned, low voice, he gasped.

“ _Jesse_?”

And Jesse McNally got to his feet, a grin wide on his face. “Hey, Levinson. Greetings from hell.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, folks! Just wanted to let you know that there _likely_ won't be a new chapter next week. I'm in the middle of packing and moving out, and while I totally am going to keep writing, I'm gonna take it easy on my daily wordcount. 
> 
> Anyway, stick around, and I'll be back soon!


	15. Chapter 15

“ _Jesse_?” Jonathan said again, stunned.

Jesse had straightened himself up and was now sitting crosslegged in the mud. He leaned back on his hands as he blinked up at Jonathan. “Yep. That’s me.”

“What -- how . . . how’d you get in here?”

“Wolfram and Hart,” Jesse replied. “They’re not too happy about everything that’s going down on Earth. End of our realm? That’s us too, you know. Not to mention our entire client base. So they lent me the hellish powers to bust in here and get you out.”

There were a thousand questions rattling around in Jonathan’s head, but he had no idea where to start. Every word out of Jesse’s mouth just spawned another dozen questions, and it all made Jonathan’s head hurt.

“Hey, you kinda look like a goldfish,” Jesse commented, and then mimicked Jonathan’s open-mouthed stare, even bringing up his hands to flap at the sides of his face like gills.

Jonathan felt his cheeks flush.

“You’re in hell?” he demanded.

In response, Jesse just smiled, and his face morphed before Jonathan’s eyes. The contours and bones shifted, becoming ridged and angled and predatory. His eyes yellowed; his canines sharpened.

Jonathan took a horrified step backwards.

He’d seen those ridges, those yellow eyes, far too many times while growing up in Sunnydale. So many times he’d seen those bumps on faces he’d thought long-gone. And always, a glimpse of a _vampire_ was accompanied by a terrifying, life-threatening encounter that drove home just how much evil imbued the very soil of the town over the Hellmouth.

“Oh, relax,” Jesse said. He was still smiling, still wearing that horrible ridged face. “You’re already dead.”

“But you--”

“I’m dead, too,” Jesse said, looking as if admitting it nauseated him. “And not just the ‘I don’t have a heartbeat but I still drink your blood’ kind. I mean proper dead. Had a run-in with a stake.”

“What are you doing here?” Jonathan asked suspiciously.

“Already told you, Wolfram and Hart sent me. Your gypsy up here opened up this handy portal and only closed the door on it, so it wasn’t hard to pull it back open.”

“You work for Wolfram and Hart?”

“Sure, my sire got me in. It’s an easy way out from the whole hellfire and brimstone experience, you know? Way better use of my skills. Anyway, I’m here to bust you out of your pearly-gated prison.”

“Why?”

“ _Already told you_ ,” Jesse said, rolling his eyes irritably. “We’re don’t want the realm to end either. Now your Powers That Be have you all locked up, but Wolfram and Hart thinks we have similar goals, and the Senior Partners are a bit out of the reach of The Powers That Be. So we bust you out; you help us preserve the realm. Win-win. Now get in the portal.”

Jonathan crossed his arms. “Why me? I’m not as powerful as Cordelia.”

“Yeah, but the portal in hell was built from _your_ heaven, wasn’t it? I gotta start somewhere. Now, will you stop being annoying and just come to hell already?”

“I want to see Cordelia first,” Jonathan said stubbornly.  

Yes, he’d been desperate for a way out of his heaven, but he’d also been warned about accepting invitations to stay in hell. If he really could help save the realm by returning to hell, maybe, but . . . he didn’t trust a vampire. He needed Cordelia’s input.

“Yeesh, what kind of jailbreak is this?” Jesse said incredulously. “I’m the one with the power here!”

Jonathan scowled and held his gaze.

Jesse sighed. “Fine, whatever. But only because I’m supposed to be getting her, too.”

He got back to his feet and stepped over to the portal. He ran his finger along the sparking edge, and as he did so, the color changed. Blue shifted to white -- not the blinding white from when the Oracles paid Jonathan a visit, but a softer, sparkling white, like sunlight off snow.

Jesse gestured to the portal and lifted his eyebrows. “There you go. One door into Cordelia Chase’s heaven, as requested.”

Jonathan frowned. “You go first.”

“You do realize I’m the one rescuing you, right?”

But when Jonathan did not flinch, Jesse just rolled his eyes, and stepped through the portal.

When he vanished, Jonathan hesitated. Jesse willingly going through the portal suggested that it didn’t open up anywhere immediately dangerous, but there was still nothing saying it _actually_ went to Cordelia’s heaven. And years in Sunnydale had taught him to never trust a bumpy face, no matter how familiar the person wearing it was.

But the alternative was to remain trapped in his lonely forest, and nothing he’d been able to do could break him out. And so, Jonathan heaved a breath, and followed.

It felt like being shoved sideways. The journey wasn’t as long as the trip to hell; it lasted only a heart-stopping second, and then Jonathan was tumbling out, head-over-heels, onto the familiar sidewalk of Cordelia’s heaven. He landed hard on his elbows, and if this hadn’t been heaven, he would have scraped up the entire length of his forearms.

Jesse had already climbed to his feet, and was grinning at Cordelia. Cordelia stood at the entrance of her hotel, staring at Jesse with a stunned and slightly disgusted expression as she took in the ridges on his face. When Jonathan landed roughly, her gaze flickered to him.

“What--? Jonathan -- _Jesse_? What’s going on here?”

“Hey, Cordy. Nice place you have,” Jesse drawled. “It’d be cool to hang here sometime.”

Cordelia held up a finger, striding up to them. “Don’t start. Just tell me what’s going on.”

“He says he’s working for Wolfram and Hart,” Jonathan said, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “He, uh, used the portal Jenny opened to get into my heaven, and tried to convince me to come to hell. But I said I wanted to see you first.”

“Which I only agreed to because I was going to fetch you anyway,” Jesse added quickly.

And to Jonathan’s surprise, Cordelia did not demand to know what Wolfram and Hart wanted with them; she did not seem suspicious in the least. She just glowered, and said: “Wesley sent _you_?”

“Wesley’s not the only one in charge, you know. Lucky you, the Senior Partners think you all have the right idea about saving the world. Anyway, I’m the employee who knew Jonathan best in life, so it takes a little less energy for me to bust in to his heaven.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Whatever. You figured out the whole higher power issue?”

“Yeah.” Jesse dug a runed amulet out of his pocket and tossed it at her. “That will tie up your powers. Then a trip to hell will be no problem.”

Cordelia made a face at the amulet and inspected the runes, evidently checking for anything malicious. But there must not have been anything that jumped out at her, because she slipped the amulet over her neck, and shuddered.

“Ugh. It feels terrible being restricted. And it looks hideous, too. I can’t believe this was my idea.”

“Wait,” Jonathan said abruptly. “Cordelia, did you know about this?”

“Not Jesse here,” Cordelia replied. “But yes. We needed a way out if the Powers That Be shut us down. I couldn’t talk about it much in case they were listening, so I gave Doyle the message to pass onto Wesley when we were in his weird emotional heaven. Let me tell you, emotion-based messages are _hard_.”

“Great,” Jesse said. “Now that we have all that out of the way, can we please go back down to hell already?”

“I need to see Dennis first,” replied Cordelia.

“What is with you two?! You make a hell of a lot of demands for the people who are being rescued!”

“No discussion. I see Dennis first. Then, _together_ , we all go to hell.”

Jesse looked like he was still about to argue, but Cordelia crossed her arms and fixed him with an icy stare.

“Unless you want to see how your guys in charge react to you coming back without your higher power?”

“It’s not even like you’ll have any power down there!”

“Oh please,” Cordelia snapped. “I know my worth. Your Senior Partners would _die_ to get their hands on a higher power, handcuffed or not. And I still have all my information, and if I don’t get to see Dennis right now, you’ll get to explain to Wolfram and Hart why you’re not getting any of my valuable contributions.”

Jesse snarled in frustration. “Fine!” he spat. “But this is the last demand!”

He stalked back to the portal and ran his hand along the edge.

“There, it’s unhinged. Just link it to Dennis’ heaven.”

Cordelia pulled off the amulet and touched the side of the portal. The sparks flared for a moment. Then, without any kind of farewell, she stepped through and vanished.

Jesse followed, still grumbling, leaving Jonathan to scramble up and hurry after them.

Jonathan managed to land on his feet this time, but just barely. As he stared around, his eyes went wide. Dennis’ heaven was a mess. Wind was whipping through the hills, and there were giant holes in the ground, as if the earth had been carved away. Enormous, dark clouds had obscured the sun overhead, and for such a wide, open heaven, it was incredible how much debris that had somehow managed to accumulate: there were large rocks and bits of wood that looked to be have been torn from a dock, and there was a random patch of mountain tundra, as if the far corners of Dennis’ heaven had blended together.

“Dennis!” Cordelia called.

Jonathan didn’t even see where he’d come from. At Cordelia’s cry, Dennis was suddenly there in the long grass, just six feet away. He rushed forward and threw his arms around Cordelia’s middle. His face pressed into her shoulder and he shuddered -- wordless, just clinging to her as if she were the only solid thing in his world.

“Dennis,” Cordelia said softly. Her hand came up to brush gently at his hair. “Oh, Dennis. What’d you do to your heaven?”

Just barely, Jonathan heard the muted reply: “Got scared.”

“We’re getting you out of here,” Cordelia said. “You’re not trapped anymore.”

“H-how?”

“Wolfram and Hart sent someone to fetch us. Jesse here is going to take us away from the Powers That Be. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you someone would be coming for us. I couldn’t risk the Powers knowing the plan.”

Dennis pulled back a little, and nodded solemnly.

Cordelia turned to Jesse. “Get him out of here.”

Jesse rolled his eyes. “Heaven souls are really rude,” he commented. But he turned back to the portal, and a moment later, the pitch-black tear was sparking blue again. “Well, come on already!”

Dennis didn’t waste a second before rushing through the portal. Jesse went next.

As Cordelia stepped up next to Jonathan to follow after them, Jonathan suddenly spoke: “Cordelia -- Dennis . . . what . . . ?”

Cordelia looked at him. Her expression was hard, but there was an undercurrent of sadness in her eyes. “You’d be claustrophobic too if you spent sixty years trapped in the wall you died in,” she said simply.

Jonathan stared. The Powers cutting off his heaven had been unfair; it’d stolen aspects of his paradise, all in the name of keeping him in line. But for Dennis, cutting off his heaven must have been the equivalent of plunging him into his personal hell. And just because he’d dissented.

A smile twitched at the corner of Cordelia’s lips, but there was no joy in it. “You understand, huh?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Come on, let’s get down there.”

Together, they entered the portal.

Down, down, down they fell, and Jonathan had a moment to reflect that he was starting to get used to all this portal transportation. When they shot out the other end, he managed to land steady on his feet.

For a moment, he thought there might not be a hell sensation today. But then, as Cordelia straightened, brushing non-existent dust off her pants, Jonathan felt a sharp pain in his leg, as if a needle had just sank deep into the flesh. He yelped sharply.

“Yes, I’m told it’s needles today,” said a familiar voice. “One of the less popular ones, I’m afraid.”

Cordelia’s face lit up. “Wesley!”

She rushed forward and threw her arms around his neck, pulling him close for a tight hug. Wesley let out a soft laugh and hugged back.

“It’s lovely to see you again, Cordelia.”

“You, too,” Cordelia replied. “As much as it sucks you’re still down here. Thanks for getting us out, by the way.”

“Of course.”

“Hey, _I_ didn’t get a hug for rescuing you,” Jesse said petulantly.

Cordelia ignored him. Wesley glanced over at Jesse, and said: “I believe there are other souls you’re supposed to be freeing from heaven.”

Jesse huffed. “I don’t get nearly enough respect.”

But he turned to a small group of demons and human souls that were huddled together seriously at one corner of the lobby. Jesse strode up to them and called out: “C’mon, portals open! Let’s get us our army.”

Jonathan watched as the group moved toward the portal and, one-by-one, vanished into it. Another ‘needle’ jabbed into his back, and he winced.

“Um, Wesley -- how many people down here are helping out?”

“All of Wolfram and Hart,” Wesley replied. “And most of their client base. Thousands.”

Jonathan felt dizzy.

“And we’re headed up to heaven to spring out everyone who was working for you -- plus select additions of our own. Old Watchers, witches, demonologists. Anyone who might lend a hand.”

“They’re all trapped, too?” Jonathan asked.

“The Powers That Be isolated everyone they thought might help bring down Twilight. You guys were getting too close to finding a solution.”

“But . . . thousands?” Jonathan said weakly.

“This isn’t just about research anymore,” Wesley told him seriously. “There’s a big fight coming. We’re going to need all the hands we can get.”

Jonathan swallowed. But he knew, with the kind of instinct that came from living on the Hellmouth, that Wesley was right. The time for watching and talking was gone.

\----

“How the _hell_ did Amy get in here?!” Xander snapped, pacing around central command like a caged animal. “How could it be so easy for her to just slip in?”

“How were they to know she wasn’t a stray?” Dawn replied. “And don’t forget, you were perfectly happy to pet her yourself.”

Xander shuddered and wiped his hand hastily on his pants.

“We’ll deal with how she got in later,” Buffy said. “But she heard us. We have to figure out what we’re going to do about that.”

It’d been about an hour and a half since Amy had vanished, from the middle of central command. In that time, they’d managed to retrace Amy’s movements through the castle, from central command, to Maja and Puteri, through the mess hall, and to the morning patrol who had first brought her in. They interviewed everyone who came in contact with Amy, and they had a fairly good picture of everything Amy knew.

One, how the spells around HQ worked, apparently. Two, that Italy Squad was functioning without a Watcher. Three, all the notes Maja had taken on Scotland Squad’s training. And four, that they all knew that Angel was the face behind Twilight’s mask.

What this meant, however, know one was sure. Nothing good, that was certain.

“What _can_ we do?” Xander said irritably. “She knows. Great. Nothing we can do to change that.”

“What if we rearranged training schedules?” Andrew put in. “So, like, what she saw isn’t true anymore.”

“That’s on the agenda -- for later,” Willow said. “But for now, I think we need to reinforce our fortress. So that if she decides to attack with the information she has, we’re ready for her.”

“Bit too late for that.”

The group in the command center all turned to look at the door, Andrew mimicking just a half-second behind. Rowena was standing there, a grim expression on her face.

“Just got word from a patrol,” she declared. “Twilight’s here.”

Shock swept through the room. Buffy stood up sharply, her hands white-knuckled on the back of her chair. The look on her face was like stone.

“Details,” she demanded.

“Twilight’s at the perimeter,” Rowena said. “He’s not doing anythin’; just floatin’ there. Says he wants to talk to you.”

 _Twilight was here_. At main headquarters. They weren’t just talking spies and annoying military allies anymore -- they were facing down Twilight himself. Buffy’s frown deepened, her heart kicking up a beat in her chest, and she took a step forward.

But then Rowena continued: “We already got a coupla volunteers to go up for ya. I’m thinking Leah could take the lead, and some of the Rome visitors wanna join.”

“‘Volunteers’?” Buffy echoed.

“Well, yeah. The prophecy says you’re in danger if you and Twilight come together, right? We’ll be your messengers.” She glanced from Buffy to Xander. “What’d’ya think?”

Xander gave a firm nod. “Yeah. Put a team together.”

Buffy frowned. “Twilight wants to talk to _me_. I’m not in the practice of sending people to do my bidding.”

“Hey, we’re all Slayers here,” Rowena replied. “We all got the same duty t’ protect the world. And if you can’t go to Twilight ‘cause a prophecy says it means crap and destruction, we’ll do it.”

“I think we should use the other Slayers,” Andrew put in. “I mean, if Mr. Giles was so scared of this prophecy, I don’t think it’s worth risking putting you on the front lines.”

“They have a point,” Willow said. “We’re talking some really bad mojo here about you and Twilight meeting, and we don’t know what exactly is gonna set everything in motion. It’s not safe.”

And so Buffy nodded. “Deal. But take a walkie talkie. I have some choice words I’d like to say.”

\----

Twilight had finally come directly to Scotland headquarters, but in the grand scheme of the universe, this confrontation would change nothing.

On the small scale, this confrontation would change _everything_.

Posey’s skin felt clammy as she hung at the edge of the training center, her eyes raking over the ranks of Scotland Squad. Her heart was pounding against her ribs. Twilight himself was at the gates, and the Slayers and Wiccans were all scrambling to prepare for an oncoming battle. _This_ was the culmination of everything Posey been training for over the past six months.

But the people here weren’t her Squad. They weren’t the girls she’d trained with, the ones she fought side-by-side with. Posey missed Natalia and Sophie and Indira so much it made her eyes burn. Sophie always would crack a lighthearted joke before any battle, trying to make Posey smile. And on Posey’s very first patrol, she’d been pinned by a vampire, could feel its cold palms pressing against her neck; she couldn’t breathe. But then the pressure had vanished in a cloud of dust, and Natalia was standing there, with a stake in her hand and fire in her eyes. Indira had helped her to her feet, asking: “You okay, Posey?” Those were the girls she trusted with her life.

Today, however, the Scotland Slayers would have to be her squad.

Posey dug the tip of her shoe into the dirt, heaving in deep breaths of the cool, damp air. She raked her gaze over the training center again, searching for Melanie’s familiar dark curls. But she didn’t see her.

Rather, another girl, with a backwards baseball cap over short blonde hair, was coming toward her.

“‘Ey, you Posey?” the girl said, as she approached.

“Um. Yes.”

“‘Ey. I’m Rowena. I hear you’re the best with demons, right after Mr. Wells ‘imself.”

“Oh,” Posey said, feeling a shy spark of pride. “Yeah. I’m in charge of that training when he’s away.”

“I’m putting together a team to face Twilight. We could use a demon specialist; Twilight’s been known t’ use demons in his battles.”

Posey felt her fingers tingle with a rush of adrenaline. She swallowed hard, her mouth dry. They were putting her on the front lines.

“A-alright,” she said, her voice a squeak.

“Great,” Rowena said. “You got a weapon?”

In reply, Posey held out the pair of twin daggers she’d been training with before news of Twilight’s arrival had broken.

“Good. Come with me, then.”

Posey followed Rowena as she led her around the edges of the training center. She felt oddly hyperaware of her body and everything around her; her skin was tingly and too-tight, and she was conscious of the rise and fall of her chest, her breaths a little too deep. A breeze stirred through her hair, causing a few stray strands to tickle the back of her neck.

“What d’you know about Twilight’s use of demons?” Rowena asked abruptly.

“Oh. Um.” Posey rolled her tongue in her mouth as she scrambled to think. “Goat demons. Also, um. There’s two that Andrew call ‘terror twins’? If we see them, we, uh, should probably retreat immediately.”

“You mean Pearl ‘n Nash? Retreat? C’mon, we got ten Slayers out there and another fifty in reserve! They’re just two _half-_ demons.”

“No, but really! Andrew says their power is off the chart. And w-we’re not that well trained. We haven’t been Slayers long!”

Rowena huffed. “Well, Leah’ll be in charge of the calls. Let _her_ know.”

Posey stared helplessly at the line of her shoulders as Rowena pulled ahead of her.

At the corner of the castle walls, there was a group of girls, about eight or nine. As Rowena and Posey approached them, one of them -- a tall girl with unnaturally red hair -- looked up.

“Hey, Rowena. Get us someone good with demons?”

“Yep,” said Rowena. “You’ll like her, Leah. Got Mr. Wells’ favorite student.”

Posey felt her face warm as Leah and the other girls looked her over. “Hi,” she said quietly.

“Hey,” Leah replied. “Posey, isn’t it? It’ll be good to have you on board. We’re the team that’s going to be talking with Twilight face-to-face, as Ms. Summers’ messengers.” She held up a walkie talkie. “We’ll need you to keep an eye out for demonic signs in case Twilight calls up any backup while we’re out there.”

Mutely, Posey nodded.

“‘Kay. Keep behind Rowena. And if you see something, give us a shout.”

Posey thought quickly that she should mention her worries about Pearl and Nash, but then Leah had already turned away, and Posey swallowed her words. She’d just have to call for a retreat if she saw the half-demon twins, she decided. After all, there was no reason to think that Leah might be as stubborn as Rowena.

“C’mon, guys! Let’s move out!” Leah called.

Posey followed quietly after Rowena as the group set into motion. Her gaze swung around, trying to take in the girls who were part of her team. There was one girl with long, dark hair like Indira’s, another with Sophie’s thick curls -- but each face was unfamiliar. Posey’s heart was beating faster than ever in her chest.

And then they turned around the corner of the castle walls.

The wind was rippling across the open moor, and at the edge of the line of trees in the distance, Posey could make out the dark figure of Twilight. He wasn’t floating this time, but even with both feet on the ground, power radiated from his presence. Posey felt her Slayer instincts rear up, hot and challenging, in response to the threat in front of her. But another part of her -- a much older part, the part that had been _Posey_ long before she’d been Called -- wanted to burst into tears and flee behind the sturdy rock wall of the castle.

The other girls didn’t even falter. They marched forward, gazes fixed firmly on Twilight.

As the team moved forward, Posey caught the movement of their backup filing onto the moor behind them. She twisted around to watch: twenty, thirty, forty Slayers emerged, all armed, all taking their stances out on the field. It wasn’t every Slayer they had -- there was still a perimeter to maintain -- but it was a show of force nonetheless.

Twilight did not react as the team approached him, not until they’d reached the very perimeter of the magical boundary. The eyeless mask turned down to face Leah, and although there was no discernable expression, Posey could sense the spike of frustration.

“Where is Buffy Summers?” Twilight demanded, in his wholly unnecessary mechanized voice.  

“Not coming,” Leah replied curtly. “We’re here to tell you to get lost.”

“I _will_ speak with Buffy Summers.”

Leah’s expression was like ice. She lifted up the walkie talkie and flicked a button on the side. “We’re in position, ma’am.” Then she tossed the walkie talkie toward Twilight. The magical boundary between them flickered as it passed through. “Knock yourself out.”

Twilight caught the walkie talkie, seemingly by instinct; he appeared almost surprised with himself to find the device grasped in one of his gloved hands. “I will talk to her in person.”

“ _Hello, Twilight. Or, should I say ‘Angel’?”_ came Buffy’s voice.

“I will talk to her in person,” Twilight said again. He made no reaction to Buffy’s comment, and did not press the button on the side so that she could hear him.

“It’s the talkie or bust,” Leah retorted. “She ain’t coming out here.”

“This is not a matter for messengers or communication devices. It is said that she and I will bring about a new dawn--”

“--while destroying our world in the process,” Leah interrupted. “We know. And that’s why she’s not coming anywhere near you.”

“ _I know you’re there_ ,” buzzed the talkie. “ _No point in getting sulky just because I don’t want to see you.”_

Twilight uncurled his fingers, and the walkie talkie fell to the ground. Posey felt her heart stutter in her chest.

“Arrogance,” he intoned. “You think you can resist the path the universe is already on?”

Leah did not blink. “Sounds simple enough. World ends when you two are together? Keep you apart. If you take one step closer to us, Ms. Rosenberg is ready to teleport Ms. Summers to the other side of the planet.”

“You do not comprehend the significance of what is happening,” Twilight retorted. “You think what is happening is as simple as two puzzle pieces fitting together? The process has already begun. Buffy Summers tilted the balance of the universe when she shared her power. The universe has to answer that. There will be forces within her urging her to finish what she has started. She will not be able to resist by force of will alone.”

Posey’s fingers drummed nervously against the hilt of her dagger. When Andrew had described what he knew of the prophecy to his squad, he had sounded serious, but also convinced that the great Buffy Summers and her team would find a way around the disaster. But Twilight made it sound as if the control wasn’t in their hands at all.

“She doesn’t have to resist by will alone,” Leah answered calmly. “Look in front of you. Count the Slayers -- and the Wiccans, and the techs.”

“And how, exactly, do you intend to resist the will of the universe?”

“The way I see it, we’ve already tilted the balance of the universe once. The force of _our_ will should be enough.” She stared evenly up at Twilight. “And we’re willing to do whatever it takes. Haven’t you heard what Mr. Giles has been researching?”

Posey’s gaze whipped back to Leah. They’d all heard, the rumor filtering through the grapevine of the Squads within days of the news breaking; Mr. Giles had been researching how to kill Buffy. Leah couldn’t mean --

But Leah crossed her arms and reiterated: “We’re willing to do whatever it takes.”

Posey’s head swam. _Mutiny_. They were talking mutiny. It was Italy Squad all over again, but on a much deeper level. And these weren’t girls she knew; there was no Indira or Sophie or Natalia to turn to, who would side with her. She felt lost, and small.

Twilight was quiet a moment, clearly reevaluating Leah.

“You may keep Buffy Summers from me,” he said finally. “But the process is already in motion, and there are other ways consummate the prophecy.”

The team didn’t even have the time to try to consider what he meant. Twilight had already stepped back, and he waved a hand. From behind the trees emerged a woman, with long, frizzy blonde hair and a wild look in her grey eyes.

Rowena let out a choked gasp. “ _Mom_?”

She stumbled forward -- right through the magical barrier.

At the same moment, the pungent odor of rotting flesh and sulfur hit Posey’s nose. Her eyes flew wide as the woman’s sleeve fell back slightly to reveal skin streaked with black.

“ _That’s a demon_!” Posey shrieked.

But Rowena was already on the other side of the barrier. None of the other Slayers were close enough to reach her. The woman’s hand rose high above her head, and the wild look in her eyes had taken on a cruel edge. Rowena was frozen in place.

“Get _down_!” Posey screamed.

But Rowena didn’t move.

Without even thinking, Posey dove through the barrier and caught Rowena around the waist. She dragged Rowena down to the mud, just as the woman’s hand reached its full height.

There was a crack. An arc of violet light.

Posey’s scream rent the air as the charge met her back. Her entire body spasmed under the blow, jerking and twitching as if on strings. Her eyes were wide, unseeing. It lasted all of two seconds.

At the end, Posey collapsed onto the ground, her clothes smoking. Her eyes were still open.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Grief.

Andrew stared at Leah. His wide eyes were shining, and a nervous, joyless smile twitched at his lips.

“No,” he said. His voice was defiant. “No. Posey’s not dead.”

Dawn felt a pang of sympathy.

“I’m sorry,” Leah murmured. “There was nothing we could do. She ran out to protect Rowena, and all it took was one blow from the demon--”

“Some demons just make it look like you’re dead! She’s fine! Just bring her inside, and she’ll wake up!”

His voice was much too loud, too shrill. Dawn flinched, both at the sound and at the all too-familiar helplessness.

The tension that had descended over the command center at Leah’s news was now trained directly on Andrew. Everyone there had all met Posey, all liked her well enough. But Andrew had been her Watcher. Andrew had lived with her, watched movies with her, trained her. And the last time he had to confront the mortality of his Slayers . . .

Dawn glanced around the room, desperate for some kind of guidance. Buffy was staring at Andrew, but she didn’t seem to be seeing him at all. Leah was rooted to the spot, four feet in front of Andrew’s chair. The line of Willow’s shoulders made her look ready to flee. Xander took a tentative step toward Andrew.

Deciding that Xander had the best idea of things, Dawn quickly moved to Andrew’s other side. She reached out a hand to brush against the back of his shoulder, offering him grounding. At the touch, Andrew turned to look at her.

“Posey’s _not_ dead,” he insisted. “I need to see her.”

“I don’t think--” Xander began, but Dawn broke in:

“The rest of the team is bringing her in now. I’ll -- I’ll come see her with you.”

She recognized the expression shining in Andrew’s too-wide eyes. He knew. But he couldn’t accept it, not until the truth was laid, stark and cold and lifeless, right in front of him.

Andrew didn’t smile as he said: “Thanks, Dawn.”

“We’ll all come with you,” Buffy declared. To Willow, she asked: “Is Twilight gone?”

Willow answered: “His presence disappeared from my range.”

“Then let’s go to the infirmary.”

Silently, Dawn helped Andrew up from his chair. He clutched at her sleeve, as if not sure he could stand on his own.

The trip to the infirmary was subdued. Andrew and Dawn walked in front, Andrew still clinging to her sleeve like a lifeline. Xander was a half pace behind, followed by Buffy and Leah. Willow hung to the very back. Either the news had spread through the castle faster than Dawn had expected, or their emotions must be stark on their faces, because the people they encountered gave them sympathetic looks and a wide berth.

The atmosphere felt odd. Unbalanced. Dawn didn’t know Posey all that well, but she’d been a person, and now she was gone. She’d been a person who affected people. And death meant she was gone, that the worlds of the people she’d been close to were irrevocably changed.

Dawn’s world would be largely the same. But not Andrew’s. Dawn remembered the unfairness of the school day just _continuing_ for everyone else, same as any other day, as if nothing had happened at all, while she crumpled on the floor outside the art room. Now Andrew’s home was going to be a person short -- and Dawn didn’t even know what that meant; she didn’t know who Posey was in Italy Squad. But Dawn’s life would continue as usual. It felt _wrong_.

When they entered the infirmary, they found that the other members of Italy Squad had already arrived. Melanie’s eyes and nose were red and swollen; Puteri looked ready to punch something; Maja looked only to be in numb shock. As the group from central command came in, the Italy Squad Slayers immediately clustered around Andrew.

Melanie wrapped her arms around Andrew’s shoulders and drew him into a tight hug.

“Oh, Andrew, I can’t believe it,” she said, as she pulled back again so that Andrew could look at her. “I’m so sorry. I should never have offered to have our people join Scotland’s team.”

“Hey, _you_ weren’t the one who jumped out of the protection zone,” Puteri snapped.

That was when Dawn noticed Rowena sitting on the edge of one of the infirmary beds. Her expression was stony, and at Puteri’s comment, she barely looked up.

“Don’t say that,” Maja said quickly. “Twilight . . . well, it could have been any of us.”

“ _I_ would have never stepped out of bounds, leaving another Slayer to give her life to save me!”

Before an argument could break out, Andrew spoke:

“Where’s Posey?”

His voice was quiet and shaking. But Rowena must have heard him somehow, because she said: “The other girls are bringing her up. They’ll be here soon.”

“Come on, Andrew,” Melanie said softly. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“Don’t want to.”

So they remained standing.

“Can you tell me what happened down there?” Buffy asked, turning to Leah. “I didn’t get to give Twilight-Angel a piece of my mind.”

“He wasn’t interested in the walkie talkie,” Leah replied. “Wanted to talk to you directly or not at all, apparently.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Told him to get lost. He kinda gave up when he realized there was no way you were coming down. I told him that Ms. Rosenberg would teleport you out if he tried to come closer.”

“And that was it?”

“Well, he said something a little worrying about there being other ways to fulfill the prophecy. I don’t know what he meant.”

Andrew was watching their exchange silently. Dawn felt a temporary surge of annoyance on his behalf: surely, they could shut up for Italy Squad’s sake, for just five minutes?

But she also knew a confrontation with Twilight was big news. Buffy was here for Andrew, but she couldn’t stop being the general because they’d had a casualty.

There was a sudden shuffling of movement at the entrance of the infirmary. Dawn twisted around: a cluster of somber looking Slayers had just entered the wing, and between them, they were carrying--

Dawn’s hand found Andrew’s wrist.

When Andrew caught sight of the newcomers, his breath audibly caught. He stumbled forward, an unthinking, awkward shuffle-step.

“Posey?”

The Slayers carefully lowered the body onto an empty bed, as a couple of medics hurried over. Maja was clinging to Puteri’s shirt. Melanie grabbed Andrew’s other hand. But then Andrew wrenched away from both her and Dawn and rushed over to the side of the bed.

“Posey? Posey?”

His hands gripped at her shoulder, at her arm, his fingers running desperately up and down the skin as if looking for a tangible spark of life. But Posey’s chest was still, and ominous black lines painted streaks down her arms. She didn’t respond.

“Posey!”

Dawn quickly moved forward and draped her arm across Andrew’s shoulders. She didn’t pull him back, not yet.

Posey didn’t look like she was sleeping. Her skin was an abnormal, pale-blue pallor; her limbs appeared as stiff as stone. Dawn suddenly felt fifteen again: small and helpless, the entire world vanishing under her feet. Dawn squeezed her eyes shut, struggling to push back the image of other bodies that were surfacing in her memories.

“Posey . . .” Dawn could feel Andrew’s spine stiffen as he finally took in the body in front of him. She tightened her arm around him, readying herself for his oncoming sobs.

But instead, Andrew spoke, in a voice that was brittle but surprisingly steady: “Rowena. What kind of demon was it?” Dawn was forced to let go of him as he turned to look at Rowena.

“Looked like my mom,” Rowena replied. “Which can’t -- it can’t . . . my mom died when I was a kid.”

“A Skitterer demon. They reanimate corpses.”

Rowena paled. “So that was really _her_? Her . . . her body?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But how? She died years ago. She can’t -- can’t look like that.”

“Skitterers reverse decomposition.”

Rowena looked nauseous.

Andrew turned back to Posey. There was an intensity in his expression that made Dawn nervous.

He tapped Melanie’s shoulder and signed: “ _Bring me six black candles and chalk._ ”

But Melanie shook her head furiously.

“Come on! We need to get started _now_! Look, I remember the spell I used last time, and Pocklas like repeat customers!”

 _Pockla_. Dawn felt cold.

“Andrew, no!” She grabbed his shoulder and spun him around to face her. “You can’t demon-pact this away!”

“Yes I can!” Andrew cried, so loudly that Dawn flinched. “It worked last time!”

“Indira wasn’t dead last time! You can’t resurrect people, Andrew! She’s gone!”

“I have to! She’s my Slayer! She’s my responsibility! I can’t let her die -- I _can’t_!”

Out of the corner of her gaze, Dawn saw Willow take a step back. Her expression had gone ashen; Dawn’s heart stopped when she saw a shadow of black at the roots of her hair.

 _I’m sorry_ , Willow mouthed, and then she fled from the room.

Dawn froze. She didn’t know what to do. Andrew was heaving noisy, shuddering breaths, clearly on the very edge of hysterical sobbing. She didn’t want to leave him. But Willow . . . --

Buffy and Xander exchanged panicked looks. Dawn watched as Buffy took in the crisis, categorizing threats as if they were demons standing in front of her.

“Go,” Buffy said to Xander, after half a beat. “Take care of her. We’ll handle Andrew.”

Xander nodded once, then raced out the door after Willow.

Andrew hiccuped and wiped furiously at his eyes, pushing his glasses askew. Tears kept leaking out even as he tried to rub them away; there was no way he could see through the haze of tears. So Dawn didn’t even try to say anything. She brought her arms around him again and held him.

Andrew clung to her, his hands fisting in the fabric of the back of her shirt. He shuddered with sobs. Melanie came up to his side and rested one grounding hand on his arm. Her eyes were shining as well.

No one else seemed much to know what to do. Maja and Puteri were both still staring helplessly at Andrew. Most of the other Slayers were looking away. Only the medics and Buffy were functioning in any productive direction; the medics were busy noting the black streaks on Posey’s arms, and Buffy was conferring with Leah to be sure that the demon that killed Posey had been dealt with.

“Yeah,” Leah murmured. “Rowena took her down after Posey collapsed.”

After several long minutes, Andrew managed to choke back his sobs into some semblance of control, enough so that he could clear his vision properly.

“I-I can’t . . . she can’t be dead. I can’t let her stay dead.”

Dawn pulled back to force Andrew to look at her. “I know. But you have to. When my Mom died, I wanted to bring her back, too. But resurrection doesn’t bring them back right.”

“But Buffy,” he hiccupped.

Buffy’s expression was impassive. She moved into Andrew’s line of sight and said: “That was different. I was killed by an interdimensional door. Posey was killed by a demon blow. Even if you could bring her back -- and any demon would demand your life in return, by the way -- it’s awful to be torn out of heaven. It wouldn’t be fair to her.”

Andrew dropped his gaze. “I don’t mind paying my life.”

“Andrew!” Dawn grabbed his arm roughly. “Not funny.”

“But I mean it!”

“Weren’t you paying attention?” Buffy broke in. “Whatever you pay, it’s _not fair to her_.”

“It’s not better to let her stay dead!” Andrew cried hysterically. “It can’t be! Then what’s the _point_ of all this?”

Maja reached for him, but Andrew wrenched away.

“It’s my fault,” he said hoarsely. “My fault. I was her Watcher. I was in charge of keeping her safe. I stepped down, and now she’s . . .”

“Andrew, no,” Buffy said. “She was a Slayer. There are occupational hazards.”

“That doesn’t mean she has to die!”

“No,” Buffy agreed. “But it means she could. I Called her, and this is what happens in the Slayer life.”

Dawn saw the pain cross Buffy’s face, and she said sharply: “Buffy, stop it.” Andrew was already inconsolable, and she didn’t know what to do if her older sister started withdrawing into that dark place of guilt as well.

Buffy said nothing, but fixed Dawn with a terrifyingly blank gaze.

Andrew was also silent, but when Maja reached for him this time, he let her hug him. He didn’t return it; he merely stood there, unresponsive, while Maja wrapped her arms around him and Puteri patted his back.

Dawn’s mind raced. She could see Andrew pulling away emotionally, and she needed to drag him back before he lost himself in his guilt. But losing Posey was a huge blow, particularly so soon after he’d stepped down from command; Andrew was devoted to his Slayers--

“Andrew, your Squad.”

Andrew blinked at her, uncomprehending.

Dawn signed quickly, hoping that reading her hands would keep his mind occupied. _“Has anyone called your Squad and told them what happened_?”

He shook his head.

“I’ll do it,” Melanie said abruptly, and she tapped Andrew’s shoulder to draw his attention. “I’ll call. And I’ll start organizing for Maja, Puteri, and I to go back to Rome. Andrew, you should stay here with your friends.”

“No,” Andrew replied. “I’m not Watcher anymore, but they’re still my Squad. I need to be there for them.”

“ _I’ll come with you,_ ” Dawn signed.

Andrew nodded. There was still an edge to his expression, but he’d found the energy to meet her gaze.

“ _Come on_ ,” Dawn said. “ _Let’s go arrange your trip_.”

He hesitated. Dawn watched his eyes flicker over to Posey’s body.

She touched his wrist. “ _Melanie and Maja and Puteri are here. She’s not alone_.”

And, finally, Andrew heaved a breath and turned away from the bed. There were tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes again, but he let Dawn take his hand and lead him out of the room.

\----

Simone missed Italy.

Turned out, her information about the alternative, more strategic base was totally off. It existed, sure, but it wasn’t nearly as large or well-equipped as her informant had led her to believe. Instead of a state-of-the-art military installation in a mountainside, Simone and her team found themselves squatting in a dank and dark series of tunnels. Simone spent most of her days feeling cold, wet, and miserable, and she would kill to have her island and opera house back.

But Andrew’s stupid team of sheep-Slayers had left too many protections around that island. Simone couldn’t get it back, even with her full force of rogues.

Simone fumed as she paced the artillery room. At least the weapons here were half-decent. Automatic guns, flamethrowers, bazookas -- all the power a Slayer deserved. Looking at them calmed Simone somewhat.

A knock at the door suddenly made Simone’s head shoot up.

“What?!” she snapped.

The door cracked open, and Nisha peered in. Simone scowled.

“Sorry, Simone. But, um. Twilight is here.”

“ _What_?!”

“He’s at our perimeter. He hasn’t tried to force in or anything -- he says has a proposition for you.”

Simone only had to consider for half a second. Twilight was the biggest power on the planet. Having him as her ally could be the strongest weapon in her pocket. It was a risk; she knew Twilight had the upper hand on her, and if he chose to challenge her, she wouldn’t stand a chance. But if she could keep her distance enough to reap the benefits of his allyship while maintaining the freedom to run at the first sign of dissent . . .

It was worth hearing Twilight out.

“Take me to him.”

\----

The trip to Italy was overlaid with heavy silence. Andrew kept to himself, not speaking except to organize or respond to a direct question. Dawn stuck by his side, but he continued staring morosely into the distance. It was disquieting to see Andrew so removed from his usual bubbly self; the last time Dawn had seen him this bad was right after the collapse of Sunnydale. And that was a funk that he hadn’t shaken until he’d started training to be a Watcher. Dawn didn’t know what would shake him this time.

She’d run out of words to say, and so she stood quietly by his side as he returned to Italy Squad HQ and addressed his Slayers; said nothing as he dialed Posey’s family. Dawn could see that it pained him to pass the phone over to Melanie to make the call, but even then, she didn’t know what to say to make him believe they knew he was doing all he could.

“They want us to send them the body,” Melanie said, after she hung up. “They’ll be making funeral arrangements.”

Dawn reflected that Andrew’s glasses had been particularly useful the past few days. Words like ‘body’ and ‘funeral’ weren’t signs that most of them had thought to learn.

Andrew nodded stiffly. “Is the Squad allowed to attend?”

Melanie hesitated. “No.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe the Squad can have their own memorial service?” Melanie suggested quickly. “I think it would be good for us.”

Again, Andrew nodded. “Do you want to organize it?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. Do you have anything in mind you want me to do?”

“No,” Andrew replied. “Do whatever you think you should.” Then he stood up from the desk, and walked out of the office.

He did not react immediately when Dawn joined him. But when he reached the door of his shared living quarters, he held the door open for her so that she could follow after him. He made his way over to his bunk and sank to the floor, not even bothering to climb the ladder to his mattress.

“ _I should visit Posey’s parents_ ,” he signed. A pause. “ _Right_?”

Dawn walked over and knelt on the ground in front of him. “Do you have any kind of plans for this? We fight demons and vampires and world-ending prophecies. Didn’t you make any worst-case scenario plans?”

“‘Protocol: Soul the Most Human’,” Andrew murmured. He shook his head. “Doesn’t feel right. Posey . . . it doesn’t feel right for her.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t write it for her. It wasn’t supposed to be used for her.”

“Who did you write it for?”

“I don’t know. No one? Maybe me? Not her.”

Dawn slid her legs out from under her and hugged her knees to her chest.

Andrew hadn’t been able to consider any of his Squad’s deaths, other than his own. Giles had accelerated Andrew’s training, pushing him through a subset lessons of the Watcher’s Academy so that he could take command of Slayers in record time. But Andrew hadn’t been ready. Hadn’t been prepared.  

But maybe no one could really be prepared, Dawn thought. She remembered how Giles himself had left them all behind when Buffy died. How things had never felt quite the same after that.

“Maybe you can start with the memorial service,” Dawn suggested finally. “How do you think she should be remembered?”

“That’s Melanie’s job.”

“But you can help. You were her Watcher.”

For a long moment, Andrew was quiet. His gaze dropped to the floor, and his fingers drummed a nervous pattern on his knee.

When he spoke, his voice was a little too loud, as if he were determined for his words to be heard: “I recruited her six months ago, in New York. She was a high school senior. Then the week before, her brother had been attacked by vampires, and she fought them off -- which is how I found out about her, by the way -- and so when I came to recruit her, she was really interested in everything I had to say. But she was also really nervous because she didn’t think she could be a good Slayer.

“I told her about the Slayer instincts and training, though, and she warmed up  She wanted to hear everything about Slayers and vampires and demons and the Squad. And she wanted to know about our movie nights and the music we played at training, and then we ended up talking about ABBA for like an hour. At the end, she wanted to join. Her parents weren’t really sure, but I told them about the Squad, too, and because she’d saved her brother the week before, they eventually agreed to a year of Italy Squad.

“She was actually really shy with the whole Squad at first. Didn’t really talk to anyone. But she remembered us talking about ABBA when I was recruiting her, so she gave me a CD when she moved in. Look--”

He twisted around and reached under the bunk beds to rifle about. After a moment, he pulled out a cardboard box and flipped open the top. Inside, Dawn saw a bird’s nest of items: vinyl records, a CD player, headphones, an iPod Nano, banana-shaped walkie talkies, a small desktop stereo.

Dawn felt her heart freeze. She knew what this box must be.

Andrew rummaged through the jewel cases, until he pulled out a CD labeled “ _18 Hits_ ”. He pushed it into Dawn’s hands.

“I-- . . .”

But then he broke off. His fingers curled on his knees, and he sniffed, rubbing at his eyes.

“I wish I could listen to it again.”

Dawn swallowed. When Andrew glanced up at her, she said: “Maybe we could put it on the stereo, and you could put your hand on it to feel the vibrations? And I could recite the lyrics to you.”

“Not the same.”

“I know, but it’s the best we can do.”

Andrew sniffled again, and he wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. This time, his hand came away with wetness streaked across the skin. When he looked down and saw the shine of tears, horror crossed his face. “I-I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay. You can cry.”

“No, I _can’t_!”

Dawn blinked.

“I can’t cry about this. Don’t you see? I-if I cry about being deaf, if I wish I could hear, that must mean I’m sorry I saved Indira’s life!”

“What? That doesn’t make any sense!”

Andrew only hunched his shoulders. “I can’t be sorry I made that deal. I _can’t_.”

“Andrew, listen to me,” Dawn said firmly. “If you were in that position again, right now, where Indira was dying and you could save her by making a deal, would you do it?”

“Yes,” he replied immediately.

“Then there’s your answer. You’re not sorry you saved Indira’s life. And I saw you try to do the same thing for Posey.”  

Andrew stared helplessly at her, as if not sure whether or not to accept what she was saying.

“It’s okay to be upset that you’re deaf now. It doesn’t mean you think you made a mistake. It just means you miss being able to hear.”

His lips trembled.

Dawn reached out to put a hand on his shoulder and pull him in for a hug. Andrew leaned into her, his arms coming up around her back to clutch onto her shirt, and he sobbed.

And Dawn held him, gently patting his back and his hair, as he cried -- cried for Posey, for his hearing, for his job, for everything he hadn’t been ready for.  

It was almost twenty minutes before Andrew’s tears finally dried up. By that time, Dawn had pulled down a blanket to wrap around him, and he was clutching a Captain America action figure to his chest like a teddy bear. He hiccupped and relaxed against Dawn’s shoulder.

“Hey, Dawn,” Andrew said, his voice croaky. “What you said about the putting on the CD and telling me the lyrics -- could you still do that?”

Dawn pulled back a little to free her hands. “ _Of course,_ ” she signed.

He gave her a weak, watery smile. “ _Thank you_ ,” he replied. Dawn smiled back.

They loaded the CD onto the stereo and cranked up the volume. As “The Winner Takes It All” began to play, Andrew placed his hand over one of the speakers, and pushed his glasses back up his nose.

Dawn spoke the lyrics, and Andrew watched her solemnly. He clutched the blanket a little closer to himself. Slowly, the redness in his eyes faded.

As the CD continued, Dawn felt the atmosphere in the room relax. Andrew wasn’t okay again, not just yet. But he would get there. It would just take time, and a little support.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Discussion of past child abuse.

When Posey came back into being, it didn’t feel like waking up. She wasn’t lying down, and her eyes didn’t open. Her eyes just _were_ open, and she was standing, as if she had coalesced from the mist swirling around her.

Posey turned in a slow circle, taking in her surroundings. She was in an impossible library, with shelves that towered so high above her that they vanished into a ceiling of white, puffy clouds. The hallways turned and spiralled, and as she walked through them, she found gaps that led into more lines of bookshelves or to cozy nooks: here was an armchair in front of a crackling fireplace with snow drifting lazily from an indiscernible source; there was a windowsill overlooking a peaceful beach. One bend brought her to a shelf overgrown with ivy, and she wasn’t entirely sure, but she thought she might have seen a fairy flitting between the leaves.

And most curiously, there was a sense of safety permeating the library, so strong it was almost tangible. As if the mist swirling around her knees wasn’t made of water vapor, but of a physical protectiveness. Posey had found herself in a place she’d never seen before, where the laws of physics and architecture didn’t seem to make much sense. But she wasn’t frightened. And when she saw two strangers standing at the end of a line of shelves -- both obviously inhuman, with blue spiraling across golden skin -- she wasn’t frightened then either. Shy, yes. Not scared. The sense of safety wrapped around her like a blanket, and, after a moment’s consideration, she approached the two.

“Hey,” she said. “Do you know where I am? And . . . why are you here?” Because, as strange as this place was, somehow she sensed this was _her_ domain.

The two beings turned to look at each other. “She is a new arrival,” said the female figure, speaking over Posey's head as if she weren’t there.

“She is an excellent candidate,” said the male.

“Um, hello?” Posey tried again. “Where am I? Who are you?”

And this time, the beings turned to look at her.

“You are in heaven,” said the female figure.

“We are the Oracles of the Powers that Be,” said the male. “We serve as their messengers.”

Posey frowned. “I’m dead?”

“Yes,” said the woman.

The thought didn’t bother Posey as much as she thought it might. The feeling of safety suffused her being, and looking back on the last seconds she could remember, being dead made a lot of sense.

“Um, is Rowena okay?”

“The woman you protected is safe.”

“Oh. Good.” Posey licked her lips, thinking. “You’re, uh, from the Powers That Be? Those are the powers that choose the Potentials, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” said the man. “They have a duty for you.”

“You mean, like being a Slayer? But . . . I’m dead now. Doesn’t that mean my job is over?”

“Yes. But we ask you to continue in your responsibilities a while longer. There are forces that seek to end the universe’s path.”

“You’re talking about the Twilight prophecy?”

The man inclined his head.

Posey swallowed. “You want me to protect the world from the Twilight prophecy?”

She was relieved to hear that the Powers that Be had noticed the trouble on Earth and wanted to step in. But she didn’t know what they needed from her. She was just one girl. She was just Posey.

The Oracles merely blinked, and then the woman said: “The forces that seek to end the universe’s path have taken refuge in hell. The Powers that Be cannot reach them there, and nor can we, for we are entities of the Powers. You, however, are a human soul. You can reach hell.”

“You want me to go to _hell_?”

“You will not be harmed. It will be uncomfortable, but you will be safe, and you will return to heaven.”

Posey felt a spike of anxiety, but she didn’t focus on it. The sense of safety was still permeating her being, and she knew instinctively that she would be okay.

After all, she _was_ already dead. There wasn’t much else that could happen.

“How can I help?”

“We need you to bring hell to Earth. Dissolve the boundary between the two. Then the Powers that Be will be able to reach the forces that work against us,” said the man.

“Bring hell to Earth?” Posey echoed, incredulous. “That . . . would that hurt Earth?”

“No more than what must be done to protect the path.”

Posey felt unease crawl up her spine. But she was talking about the Powers That Be; they were the ones who chose each Potential to protect mankind. Surely, they wouldn’t call for any more destruction than was absolutely necessary. And as she licked her lips, she felt that sense of safety curling around her again.

“Okay. How do I do that?”

“A spell. You were killed by the blast of a Skitterer, which leaves sparks of its essence within your soul. Come here.”

Without thinking, Posey stepped forward at the boy’s beckon. He reached out and placed two fingers at her temple.

Posey gasped as words and images and and understanding and power all flooded through her being at that one small point of contact. She felt dizzy, and the library spun around her. For one short, disorienting second, she felt for sure she was about to pass out -- dead or otherwise.

But then the boy withdrew his hand, and everything steadied.

"I have given you knowledge of the spell, and the power to augment the effects. Now come. The forces of hell are still recruiting, and you must join them."

Posey heaved a breath, and nodded. "Okay."

\----

The last teams of recruiters were coming through the portal. Jonathan stood off to the side, watching. In one of the teams fresh from heaven, there was a girl with twin blonde pigtails who looked oddly familiar, but Jonathan couldn’t place her face.

“That all of them?”

Jonathan jumped when Cordelia appeared suddenly behind him. He turned. “Oh. Uh. I think so? I don’t know. I’m just watching.”

Cordelia hummed thoughtfully. “Good that Wolfram and Hart can handle all of this. Have to admit, their intake capacity is pretty impressive.”

“Yeah. Uh, Cordelia, are we going to have to lead _all_ all of these people in the fight against Twilight?”

She lifted an eyebrow at him. “You sound like you expect to be left in command of an army.”

Jonathan just shrugged. “People keep asking me questions. They know I’ve been working with you. But I don’t know how to lead. Even when we were fighting the mayor, I just lugged dynamite.”

“Could you answer their questions?”

“Yes,” Jonathan admitted.

“Then stop worrying about it. People come to you because you’ve been part of this team the longest. We’re not going to just throw you into a job you have no idea how to do. You think I’m stupid enough to risk the safety of the world like that?”

“No,” he replied.

“Then _relax_.”

Jonathan pulled a face, but he obligingly let the matter drop. Instead, he glanced over to the other side of the lobby, where Jesse was chatting with a red-spotted demon.

“Cordelia, why’s Jesse in hell?”

“You have a lot of questions today,” Cordelia commented. “And did you really just ask me why a _vampire_ is in hell?”

“Well, that’s just it,” Jonathan replied. “It’s not his fault he’s a vampire, right? It’s not like he chose to be evil.”

Cordelia was quiet for a moment. Then, her lips twisted into a wry, unhappy smile. “Never said the afterlife was fair.”

“But you said that you - that powers - don’t make mistakes.”

“Hey, I’m a _higher power_ , not one of the Powers That Be. I’m on your side with this whole Twilight thing, remember? I help human souls into heaven, but that doesn’t mean I have any kind of say on what to do with other beings. And _they_ don’t make mistakes because they know exactly how unfair they are.”

There was an undercurrent of frustration in her words.

“Sorry,” Jonathan muttered quickly.

But Cordelia shrugged. “There’s a lot that’s unfair in the afterlife. I apparently have a lot of work to do as dissenter.”

She was watching Wesley, who was coming toward them, trailed by Dennis. They were both carrying large stacks of paper and passing them out to the idling heaven souls.

“Hi, Cordy,” Dennis said cheerfully, as they drew nearer. He handed her a sheet.

“What’s this?” Cordelia asked suspiciously.

“Temporary employment contracts,” Wesley answered. “Wolfram and Hart will extend their protection from the hell atmospheric sensations to anyone who signs this. You’ll only be in their employment until the Twilight situation has been dealt with, and then your contracts will automatically expire.” He passed a sheet to Jonathan.

But Jonathan didn’t even have the chance to look at it. Cordelia snatched the paper out of his hands. “You want us to _what_?” she cried, as her gaze flickered between her sheet and Jonathan’s, evidently comparing the two. “Sign our souls over to Wolfram and Hart? Are you _insane_?”

“They are only temporary contracts. They won’t--”

“Lawyers, Wesley. _Evil_ lawyers. All they need is one loophole.”

A new voice came from behind them. “Hey, I wrote those contracts. You don’t think I’d do that to you, do you? Not after what happened to me.”

Jonathan turned. There was a tall woman there, neatly dressed in magenta and black, a matching scarf tied around her neck. A small smile was playing about her lips.

But Cordelia glared. “I don’t think you’d _care_.”

The woman inclined her head, conceding the point.

“I looked over the contracts,” Wesley put in. “They’re sound.”

“Sorry, Wesley, but I can’t just take your word for it. I trust you, but you’d just need to miss _one_ thing. I’m not risking it.” Cordelia looked over at Dennis, her expression pained. “ _Please_ tell me you didn’t sign.”

“No, I didn’t,” Dennis admitted. “I was going to wait until everyone else had a paper first. I mean, the sensations don’t bother me that much. It’s actually kind of interesting to be able to feel them at all.”

“I never thought I’d be glad for your weird post-ghost masochism,” Cordelia murmured. “Okay, I’m not really in the practice of telling people what to do with their lives -- or afterlives, really -- but Dennis, I _forbid_ you from signing that contract. I’m not risking losing you to Wolfram and Hart.”

“Okay,” Dennis replied, looking sheepish.

“Same goes to you,” Cordelia said to Jonathan. “It’s not worth it.”

“Hey now,” said the woman behind them. “It’s your choice, but really. It’s not always as easy as needles or bugs, you know. What happens if tomorrow is burning or drowning? You think you’ll find that fun to deal with?”

Jonathan winced as he felt a ‘needle’ jab into his knee.

Cordelia snorted. “Please. I had my visions for, what, three years? A few days of hell is _nothing_.”

“And your friends?”

“What do you think?” Cordelia said, looking from Dennis to Jonathan. “You willing to risk selling your eternal soul to an evil law firm in exchange for a few days’ comfort?”

Immediately, Dennis shook his head. A heartbeat later, Jonathan followed suit.

“There you have it,” Cordelia said curtly. She looked to Wesley. “You better make sure those contracts are unsignable until everyone has heard exactly what it means to be working for Wolfram and Hart for eternity.”

Looking only a little surly, Wesley nodded.

The woman huffed, and walked away.

“Who was that?” Jonathan asked, watching her go.

“Lilah Morgan,” Wesley replied.

“Yes, and she was perfectly happy to work for Wolfram and Hart when she was alive,” Cordelia added. “No deals necessary to get her to sign on. Don’t trust her.”

Wesley pursed his lips but said nothing.

Dennis was looking down at the contracts in his arms, and now he glanced up at Cordelia, nervous hope in his eyes.

“Cordelia . . . working for Wolfram and Hart is popular in hell, right?”

Cordelia looked at him sharply. “I _just_ said--!”

“No, not for me! But, um, can we get these contracts to other hell souls? Give them a chance to work for Wolfram and Hart and get away from the worst of hell?”

“Dennis, please tell me you’re not thinking of what I think you’re thinking of.”

“Come on, Cordelia! My mother’s been down here for years! Please, I need to help her!”

“Out of the question!” Cordelia snapped. “Your dad has a pretty good idea of things, I think. What do you think he would say about this?”

Dennis flinched. “I know my father doesn’t like her because of what she did to him--”

“What she did to _him_? Dennis, your father doesn’t care about that! He’s concerned about what she did to _you_! His _son_!”

Dennis flushed. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t find any words.

“Your mother is not working with us, and that’s final,” Cordelia said. “She’s dangerous, and I will not let her lay another hand on you ever again.”  

Dennis dropped his gaze. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I guess . . . I’ll just go warn people about the contracts.”

And he turned away, visibly slumping. After a moment, Wesley followed, with his own stack of contracts.

“It’s for his own good,” Cordelia said aloud.

But when Jonathan looked at her, he could see that, although she believed what she said, it still hurt her to see Dennis in pain.

“Cordelia,” Jonathan said slowly. “What’s the deal with Dennis’ mom?”

Cordelia’s expression tightened, and, at first, she said nothing. Jonathan thought for a moment that she might not respond at all.

But then, in a voice like ice, she said: “Dennis wasn’t the only ghost in my apartment when I moved in.”

“His mom was there too?”

“Yeah. I didn’t even hear the whole story until I got to heaven and met Mr. Pearson senior. But let me tell you, she was always a piece of work.”

Cordelia nostrils flared.

“Anyway, when the Pearsons were all alive, you had a happy little family. Roaring twenties -- a mom, a dad, bouncing baby boy. Then dad gets pneumonia, and mom has to take care of him. And what Maude Pearson realized is that people have a lot sympathy for a wife taking care of her sick husband. She thrived on the attention. But she didn’t like when people stopped paying attention to her. So when Mr. Pearson got better, she took matters into her own hands. Do you know easy it was to get arsenic back then?”

Jonathan’s eyes widened. _No_.

“Too easy,” Cordelia continued. “Anyway, maybe she only intended to make him sick again, but she overshot and killed him. Worked out fine for her, because the neighbors feel worse for a widow struggling as a single mother than they do for just a dutiful wife taking care of her sick husband.

“But the sympathy ran out. After about two years, they stopped paying attention again. And who do people feel worse for than a widow who’s a single mother? A widow who’s a single mother to a sick kid.”

“Dennis,” Jonathan breathed.

Grimly, Cordelia nodded. “Bingo. She was more careful this time with the doses, managed to keep him sick without killing him. Kept him that way for _twenty years_. Poisoned her own son! And when Dennis was lucky enough to meet a girl who didn’t care he was always sick and loved him anyway and wanted to marry him -- well, no one has _sympathy_ about your son getting married, because that’s supposed to be _happy_! So apparently, the solution is to murder your son before he can leave you and be happy and maybe even get to be healthy for once in his life. She tied him up and bricked him into the wall to suffocate, and at _the very least_ she didn’t get the attention of having a dead son because she died of a heart attack right after.”

Cordelia spoke in a rush, her chest heaving with anger. Jonathan opened his mouth -- but Cordelia wasn’t done.

“She wasn’t even done being vile. Even _dead_ , she kept terrorizing tenants of that apartment, and tried to drive any young women who lived there to suicide, still furious at the girl who’d dared love Dennis. Dennis tried to protect them, but he could only do so much. More than one girl died in that apartment. She tried to kill me, too, but I stood up to her -- to that piece of _scum_. And Dennis forced to her to hell.

“But she did a number on him. After everything she did to him, he still loves her. Some weird sense of duty about all the _fake_ caretaking or something. He thinks it was his fault she killed him -- that if he hadn’t tried to leave, she wouldn’t have killed him. _Completely_ ignoring the fact that a kid is supposed to leave home! But he loves her. For some crazy reason, he loves her.”

She finished in a brittle voice. Her cheeks were flushed.

Jonathan stared, feeling nausea roll in his gut. “Oh my god,” he breathed.

“Yeah,” Cordelia said. “So that’s the deal with Dennis’ mom. And why he’s not allowed to bring her into anything remotely resembling proximity to him.”

And just then, there was a shout.

“Cordelia! Something’s got Dennis!”

\----

Posey hung to the back of the lobby, wincing as invisible needles sank into her skin. She missed the safety of heaven already, where she’d been almost _confident_. Here, she was surrounded by a crowd of strangers with pain prickling her skin. When she’d died, she’d been in a Squad she didn’t know, unfamiliar Slayers as her backup; now, she didn’t have any backup at all. Her unnecessary breath grew shallow.

But as the feeling of utter safety fell away from her, the enormity of her task sank in. Bringing hell to Earth? Surely, that could mean nothing good. The Powers That Be seemed certain it was the only way to protect the universe, but Posey needed a moment to process the idea. She needed to gather information, to reassure herself that she was doing the right thing before she started any spells.

A man stepped in front of her, and Posey felt cold as she recognized the yellow gleam of vampire eyes.

“Slayer,” the vampire hissed.

Posey took a step back. She didn’t have any stakes or holy water or crosses -- and did that even work on a vampire in hell?

But then the vampire jerked his head over his shoulder. “Other Slayers are over there. Keep your lot together. I hate having to work with your kind, but at least we can keep your stench in one place.”

And then, with no further hostility, the vampire walked away. Posey stared after him.

In the direction that the vampire had gestured, there was a crowd of young women, who admittedly all looked to be about Slayer age. They were dressed in clothes from all eras, from all areas of the world; Posey saw many styles she didn’t even have names for. And as one girl stepped aside, Posey felt her heart catch:

There, in the middle of the throng of Slayers, was the unmistakable skull-painted face of the First Slayer.

What on earth were other Slayers doing, helping to bring about the Twilight prophecy? What was the _First Slayer_ doing here?

But before Posey could take a step toward them, a commotion broke out.

There was a cry: “Cordelia! Something’s got Dennis!”

The call had come from a man whose face had gone stark white, and he dropped to his knees beside a figure draped from head to toe in an impenetrable, unnatural black. A tall woman with fire in her eyes tore across the lobby, a smaller man lagging a half-step behind her. They raced to the crumpled figure.

Posey pushed closer, curious and frightened. There was a nervous buzz in the lobby as the other souls took in that something had gone wrong, that someone was in danger. A group of gawkers clustered around the group on the floor, but one scorching glare from the woman kept them all at a safe distance.

“I know what this is,” the smallest one said nervously. “I-I think this is the same thing that got me when I came down to hell the first time.”

“You mean the thing that tried to convince you to stay?” said the woman.

The one who had first called out reached out a hand, as if to touch the crumpled figure, he but stopped short of actually brushing against the black. “It’s a demon,” he said hoarsely. “Exists only in hell dimensions. Wolfram and Hart was supposed to clean out the lobby, but they must have missed this one. It must have been hiding in the shadows.”

“Yeah, great, but how do I get it off him?!” the woman snapped.

“He has to fight it off himself. He needs to have the will to refuse hell.”

“But it’s persuasive,” the shortest one muttered.

“Great help the two of you are!” The woman made to try to snatch away the blackness.

But the one who had sounded the first cry for help grabbed her hand. He shook his head quickly. “Don’t touch it. It will consume you, too.”

“I’m not not just leaving Dennis like this!”

But then the shortest one was visibly struck by a thought, and he looked up sharply at the woman. “Cordelia -- when the creature got me last time, I could still hear Dennis. He might be able to hear us, too.”

And immediately Cordelia shouted: “Dennis, don’t you dare give in! We need you here -- we need you in heaven when all this is over! Don’t you _dare_ sell your soul!”

If Dennis heard, he made no sign of it.

“Did you forget that I’m a higher power? If you stay down here, I can’t see you anymore. And I refuse to face eternity without my best friend!”

And when Dennis still didn’t move, and the blackness didn’t recede, Cordelia spun to shortest one, tears in her eyes. “Jonathan, you fought this off before -- _do_ something!”

Posey’s brow furrowed as she registered that Cordelia had mentioned _eternity_. What would a group trying to bring about the end of everything want with eternity?

Jonathan looked lost, opening and closing his mouth a few times. Then he said: “You said he still feels duty to his mom?”

“Yes -- oh, _fuck._ Dennis, don’t you dare! Don’t you dare give yourself up for your _mom_! That woman doesn’t deserve a second of your afterlife--”

“Wait, Cordelia,” Jonathan broke in.

Cordelia looked startled at his interruption. Jonathan took advantage of her momentary silence to address Dennis himself: “Dennis, I know you’re worried about your mom. But you can’t give yourself up to look after her. I look after Andrew from heaven -- and _you_ stopped me from losing myself on Earth, remember? You got Cordy to pull me back up, remember? And I _can_ still help Andrew from other dimensions, and you can find ways to help your mom without being in her dimension. You wouldn’t let me lose myself, and I won’t let you lose yourself either.”

Posey froze. It could just be a coincidence, but . . . Andrew had tearfully told Italy Squad of his noble best friend, the mage Jonathan Levinson, who had died on a knife guided by the oldest evil. A knife held by Andrew himself. Posey searched this Jonathan’s face, searching for some sign of the person who could forgive years of cruelty, who could love as unconditionally as Andrew had described.

“Listen to me. You can help your mom in other ways. Look at everything that’s happening because I was watching over Andrew and his Slayers from heaven. You don’t have to lose yourself. And Cordelia would miss you, and I -- _I_ don’t want you stuck in hell forever, either.”

 _Andrew and his Slayers_. It was the same Jonathan. Posey took a stumbling step forward. The Jonathan she’d heard about had died protecting the very people who tortured him and ignored him, had still valued them after all that. He wouldn’t help to bring about the end of everything. Something was wrong. Posey was missing something.

And then the inky blackness was slipping away from the figure on the floor, and there was a man lying on the tiles, red-faced and gasping and trying to push himself upright. The blackness crept back toward a corner -- but the man who had first cried out for help snatched up one of the sheets of paper that was lying scattered on the ground and brought it down hard on the shadow, trapping it. The shadow writhed.

Cordelia helped Dennis sit up. He murmured weakly: “Thank you.”

“Did you--?”

A small smile twitched on his lips. “I told it no.”

“Oh thank god,” Cordelia gasped, and dragged him into a hug.

Dennis clung to her. “Thank you,” he said again. Then he lifted his head to look at Jonathan. “Both of you.”

A woman dressed in magenta emerged from the crowd, and used gloved hands to pluck up the shadow writhing on the ground. The man who had been holding it down with the paper nodded in acknowledgement, then glanced at Dennis. “Do you need a place to rest? You can use my office.”

Dennis nodded wearily. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

And then, before Posey could reach them, could ask what was going on, could demand _why_ the Powers thought Jonathan Levinson wanted to end the universe, could even check if she was safe from that black creature, the group climbed to their feet and disappeared into the crowd.

Posey swallowed. She was in hell, alone, with more power lurking on her skin than perhaps almost every Slayer on Earth combined, and she didn’t know what she was doing.

She twisted around, back to where the other Slayers were clustered around. A breath. Her heart was pounding erratically, but somehow, through the haze of nerves, her feet began to move. She would get answers, she decided. She would figure out what was going on, and, one way or another, she would _try_ to save the world.

\----

Wesley pushed open the door to his office, and the others filed inside. Cordelia helped Dennis over to the desk, where he collapsed heavily in the cushioned chair. Jonathan hung back, looking nervous.

“You doing okay?” Cordelia asked. One hand brushed through Dennis’ hair.

“‘M fine. Thank you.”

“Good. You rest here as long as you need. Jonathan will stay with you.”

Jonathan blinked, surprised.

“Oh,” Dennis said quickly. “That’s okay. You don’t need to leave anyone with me. I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cordelia retorted. “I’d stay with you myself, but I have a couple thousand souls downstairs to organize before Lilah talks any of them into signing their souls over. But if you think I’m leaving you without anyone after everything you did for me when I had visions, think again.”

“Oh. Well--”

“And Jonathan was just complaining about people asking him questions downstairs, and this way they stop. Win-win. Stop worrying.”

“Okay,” Dennis agreed sheepishly. He flashed Jonathan a small smile.

“Take it easy,” Cordelia told him firmly. “I’ll just be in the lobby. If you need anything, send Jonathan.”

“Okay,” Dennis said again. “Thank you.”

One more brush of Cordelia’s fingers through Dennis’ hair, and then she straightened, and turned away. Wesley followed after her, and closed the door behind them.

And then it was just Jonathan and Dennis.

Jonathan still stood at the far wall, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. Dennis looked thoroughly exhausted; he slumped into the chair, lines dark on his face. A heavy silence descended over the room.

After an awkward handful of seconds, Jonathan moved over to the bookshelf, attempting to make himself look busy reading the titles. It was difficult; many of the titles weren’t even in English.

Then Dennis spoke: “So, Cordelia told you about my mother?”

“Um, yes. Sorry; I asked.”

Dennis shook his head. “I never intended for it to be secret.”

Another moment of heavy silence. Jonathan drew his finger down the runes on the spine of a thick, leatherbound book.

Again, it was Dennis who broke the silence.

“Are you ever angry at Andrew?”

Jonathan glanced back at Dennis, startled. Dennis had his face turned down, but was watching Jonathan out of the corner of his gaze.

“Um.” Jonathan turned away from the bookshelf and pushed his hands into his pockets. “Well, yeah. He killed me.”

“But you still look after him.”

Awkwardly, Jonathan shrugged. “Yeah. I still care about him. I guess sometimes I try to make excuses about what he did so I don’t have to be mad at him. But I, uh. I don’t think caring about someone has to mean not being mad at them.”

Dennis’ lips twitched.

Jonathan moved away from the bookshelf and turned to one of the chairs in front of the desk. He took one.

“Do you . . . do you ever feel mad at your mom?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” Dennis murmured. “But then I hear her in my head, telling me a good son doesn’t think that way.”

“Yeah, well, a good mom doesn’t poison and then kill her kid,” Jonathan pointed out. “Sorry.”

Dennis shook his head. “It’s okay. You’re probably right.”

“‘Probably’?”

Dennis smiled nervously. “Alright. Definitely.” He lowered his gaze a moment, then asked: “Jonathan -- what was your mother like? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

“No, it’s fine,” Jonathan said quickly.

But he took a moment to consider his reply. It’d been a long time since he’d thought about his parents.

“She was great,” he answered finally. “I got along with her. When I didn’t have that many friends, she took me to all the new movies and would try to read the books I read so I would have someone to talk about them with. She didn’t always get them,” he admitted. “But she brought me to Jurassic Park and read the books and then bought me a toy T-Rex right after. Things like that.”

“She sounds great,” Dennis agreed.

“She was. Both my parents were.”

“How are they doing now? Are they . . . still on Earth?”

“I haven’t looked in on them,” Jonathan admitted. “I -- I can’t.”

“Because your visions were blocked?”

“No. I didn’t look even before then. When I was in high school, I almost died. And when they found out, it almost destroyed them. My dad -- he didn’t smile for weeks. And my mom was in shock. It didn’t really get better until I went to college. And I don’t think I could handle seeing what they’re going through now.”

He dropped his voice.

“If they know I’m dead, they probably don’t think Andrew was the one to kill me.”

“What--?”

Jonathan flinched. Then, he admitted: “That time I almost died in high school? I tried to kill myself. When I stopped writing letters, my parents might have thought I tried again.”

Dennis’ eyes flew wide. “Oh, Jonathan. I -- I had no idea.”  

Jonathan shrugged. He hoped Dennis wasn’t about to ask any more questions. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about it.

“I’m sorry,” Dennis said.

“Thanks,” Jonathan muttered. He could feel his ears growing warm, and he rubbed hard at his face, as if to clean away the flush.

Another long moment passed. Jonathan could feel Dennis’ eyes on him, but he kept his own gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

When Dennis spoke next, he’d thankfully changed the subject.

“Thank you for helping me shake off the demon down there.”

“Anytime. You did the same for me.”

Dennis nodded absently. “Do you really think I can help my mother somehow? I know what she did, but I can’t stand the thought of her going through eternal torment. And all because _I_ chased her to hell.”

And now, Jonathan looked at Dennis properly, took into the worry and hope in his eyes, the vulnerability in the line of his eyebrows. He knew, logically, Dennis’ mother didn’t deserve her son’s help. But he also knew that forgiveness didn’t work on anything so simple as _logic_.

“I don’t know anything specific,” Jonathan admitted. “But I’ll help you, if we come up with anything that doesn’t mean you sacrificing yourself. And either way, it’s probably easier to do something if you’re not in eternal torment as well.”

Dennis smiled. “Thank you. You’re a good friend.”

And Jonathan smiled back.


	18. Chapter 18

“Join me,” Twilight said, extending a hand toward Simone. “Join me, and usher in new era.”

Simone didn’t take it. “Quit with the pretty language. Talk straight.”

Twilight paused, considering. Then, he said, deliberately: “Join me, and you will rule your own realm, however you see fit.”

“I’m listening. How can I trust you will give me what I’m owed?”

They stood at the entrance to Simone’s mountainside compound. Overhead, a half dozen rogues were stationed at various points up the mountain, all with rifles aimed directly at Twilight. None of them, however, were close enough to hear what was being said -- except Nisha, who was, as usual, just two steps behind Simone.

“You will have power of the kind you have never even imagined,” Twilight promised. “It would be foolish of me to deny you, as you will be able to match me, blow for blow. In fact, as a show of faith--” He reached into his cape and withdrew a six inch bar of metal. He pressed it into Simone’s hands. “That’s a steel alloy with one of the highest yield strengths on earth. See if you can bend it.”

There was nothing unusual about Slayers being able to bend metal, but it took effort. This time, however, when Simone took the bar into her hand and twisted, the steel folded like it was nothing more than a length of rope.

Simone’s eyebrows arched high in surprise.

“I’m stronger,” she stated.

“Twice as strong, as of an hour ago,” Twilight agreed. “And twice as fast, and you will heal twice as quickly.”

Simone shot him a questioning look.

“As Twilight comes upon us, Slayers will die. Their power will channel into the chosen Slayer, to allow that Slayer to usher in the new dawn. That was meant to be Buffy Summers, but she has turned her back on her role. When a Slayer died an hour ago, I redirected her power to you. If you accept this duty, you will continue to absorb the power of each death.”

“This is the power of a dead Slayer?”

“Yes. She was killed in a single strike from a Skitterer demon.”

“Who was she?”

“Intelligence identified her as Posey Miller, a member of the Italian branch of Slayers. One of your old squad, I believe.”

Simone smiled -- a slight, cold smile. “I remember her. Meek, weak thing. Almost as cowardly as dear Mr. Wells. Never understood how _she_ was chosen to be a Slayer.”

Twilight inclined his head. “Join me, and you will be hundreds of times stronger than that.”

“Hmm.” Simone tossed the bent bar in her palm a few times. “Just not clear on a few things. Prophecy says Buffy, doesn’t it? What makes you think I can step in for her? Hate to put myself out there and then not see that realm you promised.”

“The prophecy says only that a Slayer will redefine the rules of power and that the joining of her power with mine will precipitate the end of our realm. However, she has rejected her power. I can redirect the power the universe seeks to give her to a more receptive Slayer.”

“And you picked me.”

“I thought you might see things my way.”

Simone’s smirk widened. “Rule my own realm, leaving the idiots who don’t give me respect to burn in this one? _And_ get to show Buffy how meaningless she really is? I’m all ears.”

“Then we have a partnership.”

“Agreed.”

Neither of them noticed the wide-eyed horror on Nisha’s expression.

\----

When Dennis finally felt well enough to rejoin the rest of the crowd, he and Jonathan made their way down to Wolfram and Hart’s lobby. There, they found that mess of the crowd had given way to the beginning semblances of order. People were grouping up, directed primarily by Cordelia and Wesley, although Jonathan spotted a couple of souls being pointed in various directions by Jesse and Lilah.

“You’re back!” Cordelia said, when she spotted them. “About time. You two missed our hell friends’ updates, so I’ll fill you in as we get you into your teams.”

“‘Teams’?” Jonathan echoed.

“Yes, you’re with the witches and male-witches, or whatever you call yourselves.”

“Mage,” Jonathan answered promptly.

“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, with the Powers That Be showing their hand up in heaven, we’re going to have to move fast. Jenny is teaching you magic people how to open portals, and the more spiritually-inclined non-magical souls are joining you. Dennis, you were a ghost for sixty years. You’re with them, too.”

“What’s everyone else doing?” Dennis asked, peering around the room.

“We got some people working on an warning system to get a network of information out to the people on Earth, to keep casualties down in case of emergency. Got other people working on categorizing threats and how to deal with them. That’s a hard job. Only so much spirits can do, and we got a limited supply of higher powers on our side.”

As Jonathan turned his gaze around the lobby, he saw dozens of familiar faces he’d met since the start of this whole Twilight crisis. There was Katrina, talking tersely with a red-skinned demon; Doyle and Joyce were conferring over some sort of print out or another; Larry was relaying messages between groups; Mr. Pearson was collecting unsigned contracts from several bewildered souls. Jonathan even recognized the pink-haired girl who’d welcomed him to the comic store in his heaven.

By the portal, Lilah Morgan and Jesse were conversing with a surly-looking blonde woman. As Jonathan watched, Lilah Morgan stepped sideways, and vanished.

“What -- where’d she go?”

“Huh?” Cordelia said. “What are you talking about?”

“Lilah. She disappeared, and she didn’t use the portal.”

“Oh. Well, no. That goes to heaven. She’s going to the LA branch of Wolfram and Hart, gathering some updates on what’s going on up on Earth.”

“She can go to Earth?” Dennis said, intrigued. “I thought hell souls were bound to hell.”

“Unless you get special privileges from entities like Wolfram and Hart,” Cordelia agreed.

As Cordelia led them through the lobby toward Jenny, they passed close by Jesse and the blonde woman. Jonathan turned his head to watch. Their voices carried:

“It’s nice to see you again, mother.”

The blonde woman rolled her eyes heavily. She looked exhausted. “Don’t call me that.”

“Well you _are_ my sire.”

She snorted derisively.

“What’s it like being a force for good? Being all soulful again.” There was a sneering, almost mocking tone in Jesse’s voice.

“It’s hell. And you watch it -- The Powers That Meddle may have forced me into heaven, but I killed you once. I can do it again.”

“Hey, I’m already dead-dead.”

“I’ll find a way.”  

And then they were out of earshot, their conversation blanketed by the hubbub of the lobby. “Cordelia,” Jonathan said, turning back to her. “Who’s Jesse talking to?”

“Do you expect me to know _every_ dead soul?”

“Um--”

“Anyway, that’s Darla. Sired Jesse, sired Angelus. Was a terror back in the day, but ended up sacrificing herself for her baby. The Powers That Be decided to ‘reward’ her by stripping her of her vampirism and bringing her to heaven to work for them.”

Jonathan blinked. “Vampires can have babies?”

“Long story,” Cordelia said. Her expression had gone oddly blank. “And no time for it now. Jenny has a lot to teach you two.”

As they got nearer to Jenny’s group, Jonathan spotted Tara in the crowd. She met his eyes, and smiled. A little nervously, Jonathan smiled back.

“Hey, Jenny,” Cordelia called. “Two new students for you.”

Jenny turned. “Oh, hey again. Dennis, have you ever done a spell?”

“No,” Dennis replied.

“Then you’ll need to learn how to tap into your spiritual abilities first. Jonathan, can you help Tara teach the Slayers how to tap into their spirit? I’ll work with Dennis.”

Jonathan’s eyes went wide. “You want me to _teach_?”

“Just the basics,” Jenny assured him. “We don’t need them to be powerful witches or anything -- goddess knows _I’m_ not. They only need to know how to reach that nexus of power.”

“It’s not that bad,” Tara put in mildly. “They’re very in tune with their spirits already, being Slayers. They only need a few nudges in the right direction.”

Jenny smiled at her. “Watch Tara for a bit; she’s doing a very good job. See if you can get a sense from her.”

A faint expression of surprise crossed Tara’s face at the compliment, but she smiled back, looking pleased. “Come on, Jonathan. I’ll show you.”

She gestured for him to follow.

They moved back into the thick of the Slayers, where Jonathan noticed a few had their eyes closed and were deep in meditation.

“Any luck, Kendra?” Tara said to one girl, and Jonathan’s eyes widened as he recognized the fire in this Slayer’s eyes and the firm line of her lips. She was scowling, frustration crinkling between her eyebrows.

“No, ‘ah can’t do it. Can’t _relax_.”

“I know you!” Jonathan gasped.

Kendra turned to look at him, and Jonathan felt his ears warm.

“I-I mean. You were at my school, weren’t you? You helped when that recruitment officer from the career fair grabbed me. You chased her down.”

A ghost of a smile flickered at Kendra’s lips. “Oh, yeah.”

“I, uh. Sorry,” Jonathan muttered. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Actually, that gives me an idea,” Tara said thoughtfully. “The, uh, spiritual powers your Slayer status gives you is related to your fighting. Do you remember how you feel when you tap into that?”

“Yeah. Focused. In control.”

“Try going for that,” Tara suggested. “And follow that to try to find your spiritual center.”

Kendra frowned. “But what about the meditation you taught us?”

“That meditation is just to help you access the feelings that might bring you closer to your spirit. I -- I think you might be able to do that without any of the meditation.”

Kendra still looked worried.

“Emotion,” Tara said helpfully. “Not technique.”

After another long, dubious second, Kendra finally nodded, and closed her eyes. A concentrated look came over her face, and Tara nodded approvingly. She moved on, quietly offering the other Slayers support or guidance or encouragement.

“You’ve almost found it,” she told one girl. “I can sense it.”

To next: “Take a break; you’re going to just give yourself a block.”

Watching on, Jonathan felt overwhelmed. Sure, he knew how to tap into his spiritual nexus, but no way he knew how to teach anyone else to do the same. Especially not at the same level that Tara was.

But before he could open his mouth to mention this to Tara, a girl was standing was suddenly standing in front of him.

It was the same girl he’d seen by the portal before Dennis had had the run-in with the demon -- the same girl with blonde pigtails and a oddly-familiar face. She was staring Jonathan, looking simultaneously terrified, awed, and determined.

“Jonathan,” she said aloud, but the name was strange on her lips, as if he were a stranger to her.

“Um,” he said nervously. “Yeah? Uh. Do I know you?”

“No. I, uh, know Andrew, though.”

And, suddenly, Jonathan placed the face. “You’re one of his Slayers. I’ve seen you!”

The girl look startled. “You have?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I, uh, look in on him sometimes.”

“Oh. Yeah, I’m Posey.”

“Hi. Uh, sorry you’re dead. So, you know about me?”

She nodded. “Andrew told us about you. He told us about your magic and how you took care of him in Mexico and how--” Her gaze flickered to his abdomen, and she trailed off.

Self consciously, Jonathan smoothed his shirt. “Oh,” he murmured.

“You tried to protect him. And you wanted to protect other people, when you found the Seal of Danzalthar.”

“Er . . .” Well, technically, yes. But something about Posey’s soft tone made him look away. What had Andrew been saying about him? Had Andrew been writing him as some sort of hero?

Posey continued: “And now you’re trying to stop the Twilight prophecy?”

It sounded like a question, but one she already knew the answer to.

“Uh, yes,” Jonathan answered, a little bewildered. “We all are.”

“What . . . what are the Powers That Be doing to help?”

Jonathan frowned. “Um, they’re not. That’s why the heavens were all cut off. Didn’t you notice?”

“No,” Posey said quietly. “I just got to heaven.”

“Oh. Well.” Jonathan glanced around nervously. He wasn’t sure he was the one most qualified to give this girl the whole run-down on everything that was happening. But Tara was off working with Kendra again, and Jenny was talking to Dennis, and Cordelia had vanished entirely. “Um. Well the Powers That Be actually want the Twilight prophecy to happen. They figure it’s the universe’s path or something like that. They’ve been trying to stop us from protecting the world.”

“But  . . . why? They’re the ones who picked the Slayers to protect people. Why let people die?”

Jonathan shrugged. “Apparently it’s not our ‘turn’ anymore or something like that. Our realm has to die to make room for a new one, I guess.”

“And hell is helping us save people?”

“Weird, right? I guess it makes sense though. It’s their realm too.”

Posey said nothing for a long moment. She fixed her gaze on the ground, and Jonathan noticed her fiddling anxiously with the hem of her sleeve.

 _Unusual Slayer_ , Jonathan thought to himself. “So, uh. Have you tried to get in touch with your spirit yet?”

But then Posey looked up, and instead she said: “I think I need to tell you something.”

\----

The grind of the HQ door sliding open made Claire jump. She twisted on the spot, and relaxed only slightly when she recognized the face at the crack of the half-open door.

“Natalia, what are you doing? Your patrol doesn’t end for--”

And then she froze, noticing whom Natalia was dragging behind her.

“Nisha.”

Nisha looked haggard. Her face was pale, her eyes too wide as her gaze darted skittishly all over the lounge. And yet, her mouth fixed in that same stubborn line she’d once used whenever she stared down Andrew or ignored orders.

Now, she turned that gaze on Claire.

“I need to see Andrew.”

“Shut up,” Natalia snapped, and shoved at Nisha hard from behind. Nisha stumbled forward, but held her chin up defiantly. “Claire, look who I found trespassing. Got us a prisoner.”

“I need to see Andrew,” Nisha said again.

“I _said_ \--”

“Natalia, hang on,” Claire interrupted.

Scowling, Natalia fell quiet.

Claire turned to look at Nisha, and crossed her arms. “What do you want to see Andrew for?”

“I have information for him.”

“You rejected your loyalty to this Squad when you walked out of here.”

“This has nothing to do with _Squad loyalty_ ,” Nisha spat. “I just happen to have some information I think you lot would kill to have.”

“False information, no doubt,” Natalia murmured darkly.

“Oh, come on. I know you guys hate me. You think I’d risk my life coming in here for false information?”

“You know we don’t kill,” Claire pointed out.

“Well, now you have me prisoner. You think I like that?”

“You’d do it if you thought it’d help Simone.”

At that, Nisha flinched, and she looked away. Almost inaudibly, she muttered: “Simone doesn’t know I’m here.”

Natalia snorted derisively.

But Claire paused. Nisha had never been a good actor. And the pain that flickered across her eyes was too subtle to be faked.

A moment's consideration, and she lowered herself to the couch so she was gazing non-threateningly up at Nisha.

“Say your information is good,” Claire said finally. “What do you want in exchange?”

“For you guys to do something about it,” Nisha replied. “Without hurting Simone.”  

“You _really_ think you’re in a position to make demands right now--”

“Natalia,” Claire said heavily. “Please.”

And when Natalia pursed her lips instead, Claire spoke to Nisha:

“Andrew isn’t Watcher anymore. What you need to say you can say to me.”

Claire still remembered how Andrew looked at dinner that night. He had managed to smile a few times, but he’d been quiet, and his eyes were red and puffy. Posey’s death was still raw in his mind -- on everyone’s mind, really, but Andrew was taking it particularly hard. Claire didn’t want to bother him until she knew exactly what was going on.

Nisha frowned. “What? He’s not Watcher? What happened to him?”

“Nothing. We just redivided the labor. I’m as much Watcher as him now.”

Nisha wrinkled her nose. “Should have guessed a bossy bitch like you would take charge.”

Natalia looked like she was an inch away from hitting Nisha. But Claire merely tightened her lips and said: “I see Simone has been a good influence on you.”

“Yeah, whatever. Just let me talk to Andrew. Or at least Melanie. I’m not talking to you.”

But Melanie was taking the southern city patrol and wouldn’t be back for another hour. Claire hesitated.

And then Andrew’s voice came from the hall behind them. “I’ll talk to her.”

Claire jerked around. Andrew was standing in the doorway, looking grim. His eyes were fixed on Nisha unblinkingly. Dawn lurked a step behind him, a dangerous expression on her face as she watched Nisha.

“Andrew--,” Natalia began, but Andrew just glanced at her and pushed his glasses up on his nose.

“It’s okay,” he said.

He crossed the room to stand in front of Nisha, next to Claire. “What’s going on? Are you . . . are you coming home?”

Claire stiffened, hoping that Nisha wouldn’t be too acerbic. Andrew didn’t need that right now.

But Nisha just frowned. “I need something to write on. My sign language sucks.”

“You can just talk to me,” Andrew replied. He tapped his glasses. “These are enchanted to translate what you say.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yeah. What do you need to tell us?”

“First,” Nisha said firmly. “I need your promise that you won’t hurt Simone.”

“I swear,” Andrew promised immediately.

“If you do try to hurt her, I swear I’ll track you down and make you regret every nerdy second of your existence.”

“I would never hurt her,” he said solemnly.

Nisha hesitated a moment longer. But no matter what side of the fight Simone was on, Andrew would still consider her one of his Slayers. Maybe to Nisha and Simone, that seemed like a weakness. Now, however, that same forgiveness was the very reason Nisha continued.

“She teamed up with Twilight,” she said finally.

“Oh.” Andrew blinked. He shrugged one shoulder awkwardly. “I guess we shouldn’t be surprised. She’s a bully, and Twilight’s the biggest bully on the block.”

“No,” Nisha said quickly. “ _Listen to me_. It’s more than that. She teamed up with him to destroy the world. He promised if she joined him, combined their power, she could create her own universe and leave everything else to die, or something like that.”

Andrew nodded and tried to offer Nisha a reassuring smile. The smile was weak on his lips. “The prophecy says that Buffy needs to come together with Twilight for the new universe to happen. We’re keeping them apart so far.”

“That doesn’t help! Twilight said Simone can take Buffy’s place. That _she_ can do it instead, by taking Buffy’s power.”

Andrew froze, his eyes widening in horror. “Simone take Buffy’s place? That . . . that can’t work. Can it?” He twisted around to stare helplessly at Dawn, as if she could explain everything.

Dawn shrugged. “I don’t know. Isn’t the prophecy kind of vague?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“But if Twilight thinks that will work, I’m thinking we should probably pay attention.”

“It’s going to happen!” Nisha insisted shrilly. “Simone is going to team up with Twilight and destroy _everything_!”

“I think you’re right,” Dawn said. “We need to call Buffy, immediately.”

Mutely, Andrew nodded.

\----

“The Powers That Be sent you down here to destroy our operation?” Cordelia said, her expression barely controlled.

Posey rubbed gently at her wrist. When she’d told Jonathan about everything the Oracles had said to her, his eyes had gone round, and he’d grabbed her wrist and dragged her over to Cordelia. “Tell her what you told me,” he’d demanded. And so Posey had.

“Yes,” she answered, eyes fixed on the ground. She hoped desperately that the team would not hate her for listening to the Oracles.

“What changed your mind? Why aren’t you following their orders anymore?”

“They lied to me,” Posey said. “What they said -- it doesn’t make sense. Bringing hell to Earth? Your plan makes more sense. And I don’t think Jonathan and other Slayers would do what the Oracles were accusing you of.”

“We’re lucky you have a smart head on your shoulders,” Cordelia said curtly.

“Cordelia,” Jonathan said carefully. “What if Posey isn’t the only double agent down here? What if the Powers sent others, just in case?”

Posey glanced at him quickly, her mouth dry. She hadn’t even thought of that.

But Cordelia apparently had. She didn’t even blink. “We have to get moving sooner than I thought. At least if we use anchors to hell, it’ll be harder for the Power That Be to interfere, because we can yank right back to hell if they try to touch us.” She turned back and stared around the room, steel in her eyes. “We need to call a meeting. Right now.”

\----

“What do you mean, ‘Nisha disappeared’?” Simone yelled at the cowering Wiccan in front of her.

The snivelling girl’s cheeks were flushed with fear and anger, and she flinched away from Simone’s gaze as she replied: “She didn’t show up for her post. We tracked her magically. She went to Rome.”

 _Rome_. “Those bastards! How the hell did they manage to kidnap my lieutenant?!”

The Wiccan hesitated. Then: “She wasn’t kidnapped. She went alone.”

“ _What_?!”

Twilight was as irritatingly inscrutable as ever, watching the exchange with an air of indifference. “She has betrayed our cause,” he stated.

“Nisha is my _lieutenant_! She wouldn’t--”

But Twilight merely turned to look at her, his expressionless mask unsettling. “I have gotten word from sources. The Slayers are mobilizing against us.”

“Wait, when did you talk to your ‘sources’?”

Twilight ignored her question. “We must prepare to meet them. I have dispatched a force to bring you to full power. Come. We must join my forces.”

“Hang on, you don’t get to tell me what to do! We’re _partnered,_ remember? I’m not just one of your goonies!”

Danger suddenly rolled out from Twilight’s presence. Although his mask still hid any hint of an expression, there was cold fury in the line of his shoulders, the stiffness of his back.

“You believe I could not replace you?” he demanded, voice tense even through the modifier. “You are here to replace Buffy Summers. There are two thousand other Slayers worldwide. You think one of them would not be happy to take your place as ruler of a new realm?”

Simone physically recoil, anger roiling in her belly. But Twilight was right. She was dispensable. And she _hated_ him for pointing it out.

“Enough,” Twilight said, before she could reply. “Do not fight against me. Fight with me.”

“Okay,” she replied curtly.

For now.

\----

“We need to make our move before either the Powers or Twilight makes theirs,” Wesley declared, addressing his crowded office.

“Are we ready for that?” Doyle asked, lifting his eyebrows slightly. “Y’know, do we even have enough portal makers yet?”

Jenny looked worried. “We have about two hundred people who know how to tap into the power they need to make a portal. It wouldn’t take long to teach them the rest. I would want another hundred for the full strength, but it might work.”

“And we have the abilities that the Powers That Be granted Posey,” Wesley pointed out.

Meekly, Posey nodded.

“And what about Angel’s soul?” Doyle insisted. “Have we figured out what we’re doing about that?”

“Me,” Cordelia said. “I’ll take off this stupid necklace when I’m on Earth and use being a higher power to hold onto him with everything I’ve got.”

“That’ll put you on the line,” Jenny pointed out.

“I’ll handle it.”

“Everyone else will have to be sorted into anchors and those who will go to Earth,” Wesley continued. “We have to be prepared for a fight, be ready to send out a warning to the living in case a battle breaks out--”

But another voice interrupted: “Better start that now, Wyndam-Price.”

Jonathan stepped back as Lilah Morgan shimmered into existence in front of Wesley’s desk. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, as if she’d been running, and her magenta scarf was slightly askew. She flashed Wesley a small, dangerous smile.

“Update from the surface,” she said, breathless. “Slayer Organization is mobilizing. Demons twins Pearl and Nash have been set into motion. Battle’s about to start, any minute now.” 


	19. Chapter 19

Andrew called Pearl and Nash ‘the terror twins’. It was a name that meant exactly as it said, but at the same time, did not inspire nearly as much fear as the duo deserved.

Portugal Squad was running through a training exercise out on an open plateau in the Azores when Pearl and Nash breached their airspace, the demons soaring so high above they looked like nothing more than hawks wheeling in the clear blue sky. Portugal Squad was a new-recruit squad, full of Slayers who had just been identified. They were throwing their first punches, whittling their first stakes. It would be another ten minutes before the red alert alarm from Scotland HQ came in.

They didn’t stand a chance.

As one, Pearl and Nash angled downwards and dove toward the earth. They were birds of prey, hurtling toward their quarry. Portugal’s Squad’s sentries weren’t looking up, and so the first sign of danger was bolt of blinding green energy that burst from Pearl’s outstretched hands -- when the energy struck the ground, it exploded, sending dirt and rock pelting like bullets through the air. Six girls were blown off their feet. Three didn’t move again.

Portugal Squad had been running through hand-to-hand exercises. They hadn’t brought weapons onto the field. They hadn’t thought there’d been any need; the training plateau was top-secret, and there had never been a threat within a fifty-mile radius. Only the sentries were armed. Five crossbows to protect fifty-three squad members. Five crossbows that went up in smoke with a few well-placed bolts of green from Nash, while their owners collapsed on the ground.

Two Slayers escaped their ranks to race to the mountainside tunnel that led to the armory. But they had only just breached the mouth of the cave when another strike from Pearl hit the ceiling above them, and sent several tons of stone crashing down on top of them. Thick dust clouded the air.

The remaining Slayers struggled to organize. They clustered into a defensive formation, and a few girls snatched up stones to lob at the demon twins that were still soaring out of reach. Slayer strength chucked the rocks high enough to connect with their targets, and sharp cracks sounded as they hit Nash’s jaw or Pearl’s hip. But it wasn’t enough to down either of the twins.

One Slayer made a slingshot out of a torn piece of her workout pants and a stick on the ground. Her shot hit Nash in temple; his head jerked back, and blood trickled from the welt. Fury twisted his features, and he aimed his next shot directly at the slingshot Slayer. She did not even cry out as she crumpled into the dust.

 _Retreat_ , screamed the survivors’ instincts. As Slayers, they were meant to go head to head with all manners of evil forces. But they were outmatched and unprepared, and the only thing they could do was to escape to fight another day.

They scrambled back, racing for any semblance of cover available to them. A boulder here, a small patch of brush at the edge of the plateau over there. Some Slayers tried to clamber down the mountainside to the thicker forest down there. Others climbed up, perhaps searching for alcoves to hide in, perhaps to bring themselves on the same level of Pearl and Nash.

None of it mattered.

The Slayers were too exposed. Almost lazily, Pearl and Nash picked them off. A bolt sent rocks tumbling down on top of the girls trying to climb up the mountain; another exploded the boulder another few were hiding behind. They set the brush on fire; the Slayers scrambling down to the forest were target practice.

It all took less than ten minutes. By the time the red alert sounded, Pearl and Nash had gone, and there was only one heartbeat anywhere on the plateau.

At the mouth of the cave to the armory, buried under tons of rock that had somehow managed to leave a small gap at the floor of the cave, Nadira of Portugal Squad lay unconscious. Of fifty-three, she was the only survivor.

\----

The strength of fifty-two Slayers pulsed through Simone’s veins. It was dizzying, burning, intoxicating; a dazed smirk spread across her lips as she lifted her hand and clenched her fist. It was a simple movement, but she could feel the power surging through every tendon and muscle in her hand. In this hand, she was sure, she could crush steel to powder.

“You can feel it,” Twilight said. It wasn’t a question.

Simone glanced at him and let her hand fall open. “Hell, yeah.”

“Two of my subordinates are directing power to you. We could not merge our forces until you came into full strength.”

“Yeah, cool.” Simone kicked lazily at a stone in front of her. It shot through the air and hit a tree with an earsplitting _crack_. The stone did not fall to the ground; it had wedged itself deep into the wood. She grinned appreciatively. “So, anyway, how exactly are we supposed to ‘merge our forces’?”

“Love,” Twilight answered.

“ _What_?”

“Love is a powerful force. To act on it will tear open a rift to birth the new realm.”

“Hang on, what do you mean ‘act on it’?” Simone demanded. “For one thing, I do _not_ love your sorry ass, and there is no way I’m fucking you.”

Twilight turned to her, and despite his masked face, there was amusement in the pause as he considered the disgusted wrinkle of her nose.

“That is not what I was referring to. Had Buffy accepted her role, yes, her love for Angel would have been the driving force, and our coupling would have birthed the new realm. But you did not accept this role out of love for the one who provided my host body. You joined me out of another love.”

“What--?”

“Love for power,” Twilight stated.

Simone stared -- and then a sneer spread wide across her face. “Can’t say you’re wrong there. So acting on my ‘love for power’ . . . ?”

“The most straightforward method is to kill. Those who do not come to the new realm will die in this one anyway.”

“‘Kill’,” Simone repeated blandly. Ice flickered in her eyes. “Who?”

“It does not matter. You may choose. But I suggest selecting more than one, because the more power we indulge in, the more the rift will open.”

Simone nodded. And then, unblinking, she stated: “Italy Squad. The fuckers who _commanded_ me, disrespected me, and stole my lieutenant.”

“Consider it done.”

\----

The Scotland HQ control room was a whirlwind of energy: Slayers and tech staff rushed around the floor, checking computer screens and printouts and relaying messages. Witches chanted in a corner, their eyes glowing a bright yellow-gold. Radars blipped and signals echoed off the walls. And at the center of all of it, conducting the energy around her with steely control, was Buffy.

“Have we gotten confirmation that Tokyo Squad is on the move?” she called out.

“Satsu confirms that their Wiccans are ready to teleport!” shouted back a tech.

“Get them here, then. What’s the status on Kennedy’s jet?”

“Pre-flight checklist, ma’am.”

“Notify me when they lift off.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A soft cough was just barely audible over the hubbub of the command center. Buffy twisted around, and her lips tightened.

“Giles. What do you make of this development?”

Giles stood at the doorway, watching the command center intently. One hand brushed at the frame of his glasses.

“It is . . . unexpected,” he said finally.

“Can Simone really take my place?”

“I had not thought so,” he admitted. “But certainly Twilight knows how to bring about its own birth. If Twilight believes that Simone can bring the new realm into reality, I’d say he’s correct. However, the prophecy is quite clear: the realm is meant to be _your_ reward, Buffy. Yours, and no one else’s.”

“What are you saying?” Buffy asked.

Giles paused. After a heartbeat, he explained: “I am saying that Simone may be able to birth the new realm, but she cannot rule it. She will not survive the ascension up the metaphysical ladder.”

“She’ll die.”

“Yes.”

Buffy considered this, her expression dark.

“Simone can’t know that,” she declared finally. “No way she would bring another realm into existence if it meant her death. Do you think we could use that? Get her to back down by pointing out she’s throwing herself away?”

“That would be dependent on us getting in communication with her,” said Willow, who had just turned away from one of the computer screens lining the walls. “And her believing us. We don’t have any proof, and we don’t know what Twilight has said to her already.”

Buffy nodded grimly. “Well, keep it on file.”

“Will do.”

On the other side of the room, Xander was muttering rapidly into an earpiece. His face had gone pale; he looked shaken. When he met Buffy’s eyes, there was a terrifying urgency there.

“Buffy, we have bad news,” he said.

“What is it?” she demanded, striding across the command center toward him.

“The squad in the Azores. They didn’t answer the emergency call. I had a Wiccan astral project over there to check it out. She . . . they’ve been slaughtered, Buff.”

Buffy went cold. “What?”

“There was so much death in the air that the Wiccan threw up the moment she got back. Something got there before our message.”

“Are there any survivors?”

“We don’t know. The Wiccan couldn’t handle it long enough to look.”

An entire squad. All of them young girls, hardly any of them any older than twenty-five. Dead. Killed because they were Slayers. Buffy felt numb. This was Posey all over again, but so much worse.

“Do we have any allies in the area that can do a ground search?” she said, her voice brittle.

“Yeah. I’ve sent word to a coven in the area.”

“Good. Tell me if they find anything.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Buffy flinched at the title Xander used to address her.

There was nothing else she could do. Nothing she could do to bring back the fifty Slayers slaughtered in Portugal. The only thing she could do was find a way to save as many Slayers of the rest of the Organization that she could.

A hand settled gently on her back. Willow. She was watching Buffy, worry creasing at the point between her eyebrows. “You okay?”

Buffy did not reply to the question. “How many squads are mobilized? We need to figure out what killed Portugal Squad and make sure they’re not a threat to anyone else.”

“Our Wiccan reported demonic energies in the area,” Xander said. “I’m getting people on tracking those.”

Buffy nodded. “Willow, what’s the fastest we can get a warning to the other Squads about what happened in the Azores?”

“I can get out a telepathic message to their Wiccans. What do you want me to tell them? We don’t know much about what happened--”

But then, she was suddenly interrupted by a buzz from one of the consoles behind her.

“ _Friendly forces comin’ in on your lawn. Try not to set me on fire, love._ ”

Buffy whirled around. It’d been almost two years since she’d heard that voice.

She scrambled over to the console and snatched up the receiver. “ _Spike?_ What the hell--”

“ _Pleasure to hear from you, too. Could you clear a spot on your lawn for a spaceship? My parking’s still a little clumsy.”_

Spike. It was like hearing a ghost; her reaction was visceral. A wave of goosebumps ran up her arms. She could hear her pulse in her ears.

Spike. She’d known he’d been alive, of course -- word had spread through the demon world, and all it’d taken was just one to slip her the news. But for him to actually be here; to hear him again --

She didn’t have time for this.

“Renee!” she shouted out into din of the command center. “Get someone out there to direct Spike’s landing. Find out what he’s offering to help, and if _anyone_ knows anything about what happened in the Azores, I need information now!”

“Yes, ma’am!”

She spun back to the computers, watching as red marks on a digital map recorded the movement of their Squads.

And so it was Spike who came to her. He was led back into the command center five minutes later, coat still slightly smoking. As he peered around the room, taking in the flurry of activity, he looked as out of place as Buffy could ever remember him being; he lurked at the edge of the room, his coat drawn up high on his shoulders. A not-dead rebel vampire staring out at the frenzy of pseudo-militaristic Slayers. Sounded like the start of a bad joke.

Behind Spike, there was a teenage boy, with floppy brown hair and an intense gaze. He watched the Slayers intently. Buffy didn’t recognize him.

“‘Ey,” Spike said, a ghost of a smirk at the corner of his lips.

But there was also a hint of anxiety in Spike’s eyes, as if he was on edge in anticipation of her reaction.

_You died. You came back. You didn’t tell me._

“Hi,” Buffy said curtly. “You’re here to help?”

“Yeah. Figured a spaceship might come in handy when fighting the end of the world and all.”

“Where did you get a spaceship?”

“Took it from Wolfram and Hart.”

Buffy nodded approvingly.

_You died. You came back. You didn’t tell me. A year, and you didn’t tell me._

“Who’s he?” she asked, glancing at the teenage boy lurking behind Spike.

“S’named Connor. He wanted in on the fight.”

Connor gave her a small, awkward smile, which made Buffy feel like this kid was somehow even more out of place than Spike. But he was no younger than most of the Slayers here, and there was something hardened about his expression.

“He knows how to fight?”

“Yeah,” Connor said. “I’ve done demon hunting in the past.”

“Alright. You’re in.”

“Thanks.”

Buffy made to turn away.

_You died. You came back. You didn’t tell me . . ._

“Buffy,” Spike said suddenly. “I know what happened to your squad.”

She spun back to him, her eyes suddenly blazing. “Tell me everything.”

“Half-demon twins, Pearl and Nash. The bugs on my ship picked up their energy signature off in Portugal. They’re vicious.”

“Yeah. Vicious,” Buffy echoed, voice cold. They’d slaughtered an entire squad. “Do you know where they are?”

“They went back underground. Haven’t moved since. Don’t think they’re going after anyone else.”

Buffy relaxed -- just marginally. “You’re sure of that?”

“Yeah. My bugs are keepin’ an eye on them for me. If Pearl and Nash so much as twitch, my bugs will let me know.”

Something about the way Spike said ‘my bugs’ made Buffy think he might not be talking about technological bugs, but she didn’t say anything.

“Good. Thanks.” She looked for Willow, intending to send Spike’s news out to the other squads. Portugal Squad’s assailants may not be on the move now, but all Slayers should keep their eyes peeled for any sign of the demon twins.

But then Spike spoke again:

“Buffy.”

When she glanced back at him, she saw that anxiety lurking in his expression again. His eyes slid to the side, as if he couldn’t bear to hold her gaze for more than a few seconds. He opened his mouth, and when his hand lifted in an uncertain, half-aborted reach in her direction, she knew exactly what he wanted to talk about.

“Not _now_ , Spike,” she snapped. “I have a bit of a situation on my hands right now.”

Spike flinched, and his hand fell back to his side. “I know,” he said quietly. “I just. I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

For a long moment, Buffy watched him unblinkingly. She nodded, once. “We’ll talk later.”

 _You died. You came back. You didn’t tell me. A year, and you didn’t tell me_.

And then a shout, from one of the techs: “Ma’am! We have an urgent communication from our man on the inside!”

Buffy spun around. “Put Agent Finn on the line!”

One of the computer monitors winked into life, and Riley’s face stared down at the control room. “Buffy,” he said quickly. “Buffy, your squad in the Azores--”

“I’ve heard,” Buffy interrupted. “Those half-demon twins took them out.”

“Pearl and Nash, yeah. Anyway, there’s more. Twilight has identified his next target.”

Buffy’s jaw stiffened. “He’s sending the demon twins again?”

“No. Not this time. That was just to get the show on the road. This time, Twilight’s leading the attack himself. He’s going in, with your rogue, Simone Doffler, and a selection of his other allies.”

“Where?” she demanded. “Who’s the next target?”

“Italy Squad.”

Andrew. And _Dawn_. She was still in Rome, supporting Andrew. Buffy suddenly felt nauseous.

Riley continued: “Twilight isn’t taking his whole military force; because we’re talking about troops in a foreign nation here, Twilight is only taking the troops that supposedly don’t exist. His allies didn’t want to risk a war between Italy and the U.S.”

“But he still has more than enough firepower,” Buffy said tensely.

Riley inclined his head.

Buffy whipped back to the tech that had first opened the communication. “Contact Andrew’s Squad now. Tell them to get out of Rome. Lead Simone and Twilight away from the populated area. Tell them to bring everything they’ve got. Backup’s on its way.”  

“Yes, ma’am!”

\----

Jonathan breathed, calling on the flow of energy through his being to concentrate into the tips of his fingers. The energy swept through him -- exhilarating, dizzying, and grounding, all at the same time. It swirled out from his very core, inherent to the same beingness that gave him his body in heaven and hell.

Damn, he’d missed this. He hadn’t done magic since he’d arrived in the afterlife, and now the feel of the energy pulsing under his skin was as familiar as a worn blanket.

The tips of his fingers burned. He lifted his hand out in front of him and drew it down, his fingers brushing against thin air. But as they moved, he felt something catch. He grabbed on, and pulled.

“There you go! You’ve got it, Jonathan!”

A white, glowing rift had appeared in the air in front of him, a void of blackness at its center. Jonathan’s eyes widened, and he stepped back. “I-I did it. I made a portal.”

“You did,” Jenny agreed. “Of course, that doesn’t go anywhere because you didn’t have anywhere in mind when you made it. But you made a door. Go on, close it up now.”

Jonathan reached out again and brushed his fingers against the edge of the ‘door’. The glowing white border drew on itself, and then the rift vanished entirely.

“Good job,” Jenny said. “Go talk to Wesley, then see if you can help any of the other people still working on trying to open their first portal.”

“Okay,” he replied.

There was a kind of eerie intensity settled over the Wolfram and Hart lobby. The hubbub of earlier had died down, and people spoke in short, pointed sentences. The urgency of the situation was heavy in the air; the tension of the oncoming battle was coiling up, and the calm was palpably fragile.

Jonathan kept his head down as he passed by a pair of demons who had just popped out of the Earth branch of Wolfram and Hart. He approached Wesley, who was talking to another Slayer who had just managed to open her own portal.

“Ah, Jonathan,” Wesley said, when he spotted him. “Did you succeed?”

“Yes. Ms. Calendar said I should talk to you.”

“Indeed.” He gestured Jonathan forward to stand next to the Slayer. “We did not want to tell you the hell dimension we have selected as Twilight’s prison while you were learning, in case you accidentally opened your practice portals there. The dimension we have selected is _Ersetu_. You will have to keep its name in your mind as you open the portal for Twilight.”

Jonathan’s eyes widened slightly. “Ersetu,” he echoed. “The world of no return. I-I’ve read about it, when I was studying magic.”

“Yes. Doors that open to Ersetu go only one way,” Wesley said. “There is no exit, and there never has been. Once you’re in Ersetu, you can never leave. Ever.”

Wesley’s gaze flickered across the lobby, to where Cordelia was working with the civilian-warning network. Jonathan swallowed. If Cordelia couldn’t hold on while the portal was open, she and Angel’s soul would both be sucked into Ersetu as well. Permanently.

It sounded like a terrible plan; so much could go wrong, so easily. But they didn’t have time to come up with anything better.

“Okay,” Jonathan said, a little weakly. “I understand.”

“Good. I think Jenny wants you two teaching others now -- but don’t tell any of them the name of the hell dimension. We don’t want accidental portals to Ersetu.”

“Yes, sir,” said the Slayer.

Together, they returned to the group practicing their portals. Jonathan looked uncertainly out at the new students of magic, wondering -- yet again -- why people expected him to teach. But it wasn’t a question of what he was best at, he supposed. They needed people to be able to make portals, and they needed it fast.

He moved through the group, looking for some way to help out. Tara was still offering her quiet guidance, and he wanted to emulate her, but he didn’t even know how to start.

Then, at the edge of the group, he spotted Posey. She was hanging back, nervously watching the other Slayers.

“Um, hey,” he said, approaching her.

Posey jumped.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Oh. It’s okay,” she replied meekly.

“Did you manage to open a portal yet?”

Posey shook her head. “I’m not supposed to try. Because of the power that the Oracles gave me for the spell, we don’t know what will happen if I open a portal here.”

“Oh,” Jonathan said. He ducked his head, chagrinned; the one person he’d tried to help apparently was the one person he wasn’t supposed to help.

“I’ll lend Jenny my power when you guys start making the portal, though.”

“Right. Okay.”

He was saved from further awkwardness when someone suddenly tapped his shoulder. He turned, and found himself staring up at the hulking figure of Larry Blaisdell.

“Hey,” Larry said. There was a manic glint in his eye that reminded Jonathan of game days in high school; Larry had had that same kind of gleeful intensity back then, too.

Jonathan was deeply relieved to actually be on the team this time.

“Uh, hi?” Jonathan said. “Are you doing portal work?”

“No. I don’t have a knack for your whole spirit . . . thing. But you’re gonna need someone to hold you down here -- whaddya call them, anchors?”

“But Ms. -- oh.”

Of course Ms. Calendar was leading the whole portal mission, so she would have to go to Earth, too. Of course she wouldn’t be able to be Jonathan’s anchor. Jonathan scowled at himself for not thinking of it earlier.

“Right,” he said finally. “Yeah. Are you offering to do it?”

Larry nodded. “Cordelia’s idea, since we worked together on graduation day. We’ve been brothers in arms before.”

Jonathan’s eyebrows lifted at the terminology. “Yeah. That’d be cool.”

Larry grinned. “Cool.”

“Do you have an anchor?” Jonathan said to Posey suddenly.

Posey nodded. “Cordelia found a Slayer I’d met before we were assigned to different squads.”

“Oh, she’s not on portal duty?”

“No. I, uh, guess my power was more important to get to Earth.”

“That makes sense.”

He glanced back at the rest of the Slayers still working on their portals and set his jaw. Posey didn’t need his help, and now he had his own anchor. They were about to go into battle, and he didn’t have time to stand around awkwardly.

But before he could even pick another Slayer to approach, there was a sudden spike in the buzz throughout the lobby. Jonathan looked up. Over at the civilian warning network, people were suddenly popping out of view.

Jonathan’s heart thudded faster in his chest. There’d been news.

That’s when he heard Cordelia say above the buzz of the lobby: “Twilight is heading toward Rome!”

Jonathan froze. Next to him, Posey’s face went stark pale as well.

Rome. _Andrew_.

\----

Andrew scrambled through Italy Squad’s armory, a satchel of supplies over one shoulder as he frantically counted heads. Thirty-six, thirty-seven . . . oh god, where was Raya? He spun around, and then let out a breath when he spotted her pulling down swords from the wall to distribute to the other Slayers.

So there was Raya -- but what about Katie?

His mind was whirling. They’d run through practice evacuations dozens of times -- more than most squads, because Andrew had insisted on being prepared -- but this was the real thing. There wasn’t any room for mistakes. If they left someone behind; if someone forgot to check their supplies or dropped a protective charm, it could mean death. Andrew couldn’t slow down. He checked and double checked, running off lists of names in his head and feeling his stomach coil up with terror because of the four-dozen members of Italy Squad, surely he’d forgotten to check _someone_.

A hand on his elbow made him whirl around so fast he felt his neck crick.

Mina, dressed in camouflage fatigues, frowned at him. Her hand was still on his elbow. <<what are you doing here? you need to get your weapons.>>

“I was looking for Katie,” Andrew said helplessly. “Did she get out of the living quarters? Is she--?”

<<she’s with cj. everyone’s accounted for. that’s why we have the buddy system remember?>>

Right. Everyone in Italy Squad had two buddies: one who checked in with them and one they checked in with, creating a chain through the ranks. Claire had checked in with him, and he’d checked in with Melanie.

“But the system could be hacked,” Andrew insisted. “You could get a shapeshifter or a faked message!”

Mina looked overwhelmed. She was good with tactics and organization, not battle anxiety. <<katie’s right there. see?>>

She pointed to the far side of the armory, where Katie had just taken a sword from Raya and handed it over to CJ. It wasn’t proof that ‘Katie’ wasn’t a shapeshifter that had taken actual-Katie’s place, but Andrew forced himself to relax, reminding himself that Italy Squad HQ hadn’t been breached.

“Okay,” he said finally.

<<great. now you really need to go get your weapons.>>

<<got them,>> said Dawn, stepping up next to Mina. She handed Andrew a crossbow, a windlass, and a belt quiver that was already stuffed to the brim with dozens of bolts. She herself had a compound bow slung over her back with a bow quiver to match. She glanced to Mina. <<i haven’t trained with you guys, so i’m thinking i’ll probably be a back rank. fill in whenever there’s a gap.>>

Mina nodded. <<andrew you’re going to summon mounts on the field for the cavalry. can you summon an extra for dawn?>>

“Uh, yeah. I think I have enough moon-soaked water for another Water Dragon. Dawn, how do you feel about flying?”

Dawn grinned. <<pretty damn good.>>

Andrew rummaged through his satchel, checking his summoning vials. Yes; he’d prepared for extra mounts in case first mounts were taken down.

When he looked up again, he spotted Natalia and Nisha bickering over by the daggers.

<<no way are you getting a weapon!>> Natalia snarled, making to drag Nisha away.

<<you aren’t putting me into that fight unarmed!>>

<<what you expect us to give you something you can turn on us?>>

“Hey, Natalia!” Andrew called out.

Natalia and Nisha -- and most of the surrounding Squad as well -- flinched. Andrew lowered his voice.

“Let her have a weapon. We’re the good guys. We don’t put people on the battlefield defenseless.”

<<her?>> Natalia said, looking scandalized. <<she’d shoot us!>>

Andrew shrugged. “She came back to us on her own.”

<<simone and twilight will kill her if given the chance,>> Claire commented, as she moved over to press a dagger into Nisha’s hands. <<let’s give her the chance to protect herself.>>

Natalia looked furious, but didn’t protest further.

Andrew glanced at his watch.

“We need to get out of Rome now. We have the civilians at risk the longer we stay. In Red Dawn, they started shooting civilians the moment they parachuted in.”

No one told him off for the movie reference.

Mina nodded once. She turned away and shouted out: <<arjun! e.t.a.?>>

Andrew didn’t have Arjun in his line of sight, so he didn’t see the reply. But then Mina glanced back at him and said: <<we got the spell mostly set up. we’re just making sure the trail is strong enough for simone and twilight to follow. i’ll go hurry it along. we should be ready to go in two minutes.>>

Andrew swallowed. Two minutes. He spun back to the Squad around him, his gaze darting around the room as he matched faces to the roster in his head. Aisha -- Daniela -- Mary -- Sophie. No one could be left behind.

It felt like hardly a heartbeat before Dawn took his elbow again and said: <<they’re counting down. ten. nine. eight-->>

He twisted around. Had he seen Sun-ok?

There she was, by a cart stacked with hundreds of backup arrows.

<<\--two. one.>>

Andrew gasped as his entire body was squeezed by the mass teleportation spell. Ozone flooded his nose; he sneezed. Blinding orange swept through his vision. It was dizzying, overwhelming, and there was nothing but the pulse his pounding heart and Dawn’s grip on him. He grabbed at her arm, suddenly wishing he could hear the rest of the squad around him.

Then wind was whipping against his face and through his hair. The squad had been teleported to a hilltop in the Apennines, an hour outside Rome. Yellow flowers and small white stones dotted the grassy expanse, which was ringed all around by an encroaching forest of mountainside trees. The late afternoon sky was gray with thick clouds.

Dawn let go of Andrew’s elbow.

Andrew stared out at the field and suppressed a shiver. This was where they would stand.

The rest of the squad was already clustering into their groups, as they’d trained. Ten on the front lines. Thirteen behind them. Eight archers, scattered along the treeline. And six cavalry in the center, waiting for their mounts.

But first, Claire, Melanie, and Mina, moved to the front. They gestured Andrew forward.

<<we’re going to be outnumbered until the rest of the organization gets here,>> Mina said darkly. <<we can’t meet twilight on the field alone.>>

“The rest of the Organization will be here soon,” Andrew replied. “The last communication said they’d get here in less than a half hour.”

<<but until then we shouldn’t be out in the open,>> said Claire.

“Right. So, uh. Let’s get into the forest. Um. In five subsquads.”

<<one archer and one cavalry per subsquad,>> Melanie agreed. <<the dragons will help get people out if there’s trouble.>>

<<if a group is discovered in the woods we should hit hard and fast and then run again,>> said Mina. <<until the rest of our backup gets here.>>

<<your honor harrington tactics,>> Claire supplied, nodding at Andrew.

He nodded seriously.

<<i’ll get the order out,>> Mina said. <<claire you’re calling the shots. melanie you’re in charge of the supplies. andrew get started on your summoning.>>

“Aye, ma’am,” Andrew replied quickly. “Oh, wait -- I need to pep speech!”

Mina stared at him. Claire and Melanie looked amused.

Andrew ruffled through his satchel and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “What do you think?” he asked aloud. “Aragorn in _Return of the King_ or Tyrion Lannister at the Battle of Blackwater?”

Mina was still staring. <<andrew,>> said Melanie warningly.

“Oh. Right. Sorry. I mean, do we want rousing and emotional, or quick and to the point?”

<<you don’t need to do a pep speech,>> said Mina.

“Yes, I do! It’s all about morale! It helps, you know, feel like you have a team, and that you can win, and it holds everyone together. Also, it’s tradition.”

He couldn’t explain exactly _why_ he needed to speak out to his squad. Just that he felt a deep urge to reach out to the Slayers, to give them as much as he could for the upcoming battle. They already had more power than he ever would; they had their weapons; they had their training. But he could give them words.

Claire and Melanie exchanged looks.

<<could be a good idea,>> said Melanie.

<<but we don’t have much time. okay andrew. short and sweet.>>

Shame. Andrew had kind of liked the longer one better.

But obligingly, he unfolded his paper and turned back to the squad assembled behind him.

“Italy Squad, atten- _tion_!”

The Slayers and Wiccans turned to him. And then -- as he looked out at them, taking in their familiar faces, he felt his words slip away. His squad was watching him, curious and worried and intense, all at the same time. Forty-five faces. Forty-six with Dawn.

Friends, all of them. Friends he had lived with; friends he had trained; friends he had loved.

Like Posey.

His chest felt tight. His throat burned. Forty-six faces in front of him, going into a battle worse than anything they’d faced before. They were facing the end of the world. People would die.

Like Anya. Like Jonathan.

Andrew sucked in a painful breath. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye to so much as one member of Italy Squad. But he had to put aside his fear and give them whatever confidence he could summon. He might not be Watcher anymore, but he was still their teammate. He let the paper fall to his side.

“Italy Squad, we’re going into the fight of our lives here! The fate of the realm itself is in our hands. And I couldn’t think of a better team to fight for it. You guys are some of the best evil-fighters on the planet, and the world is lucky to have you guys protecting it. This team is gonna go up against Twilight, and we’re gonna show him why he doesn’t have a chance. To me, my squad!”  

It wasn’t much, but he meant it. And it seemed to have an effect; smiles flashed back at him.

<<hoorah,>> said Mary.

<<good words,>> said Claire, touching his elbow. <<now let’s get set before twilight gets here.>>

The group of leaders disbanded.

The wind picked up again. It nipped at Andrew’s ears, lifting the hood of his sweatshirt. Mina shouted out the retreat for the woods, and the squad, minus the cavalry, hastened to obey.

Andrew crouched in the dirt. He lay his crossbow beside him, and from his satchel, he drew his supplies: river water that’d been soaked in the light of the full moon; mother-of-pearl sheen candles; a lighter; a thick, dogeared book. He could feel the eyes of his Squad on him.

Uncork the vials. Splash the water out across the rocks. Burn the candles. Drip the wax -- one, two . . . six drops. Don’t flinch, not even when molten wax rolls across your fingers.

The wind was buffeting him now, and it wasn’t all natural weather.

Andrew flipped open the book and shouted out the incantation scratched out on his dogeared page. The tearing wind plucked up a rock, and Andrew gasped as it collided with his ankle, shooting sharp pain up his calf.

And there was that hell power burning up, starting from his gut, and boiling out through his body. Andrew hated this part -- the bitter taste in his throat; the smell of sulfur clogging his nostrils; the scream of demons in his head. And it was the same in every ritual. Didn’t matter if he was calling on a Pockla or a Ragna or an Aserioan or a Water Dragon. For a moment, his body was the lightning rod of hell.

And then Andrew felt a sudden pressure -- a vibration deep in his chest. Thunder.

But there was no storm. Instead, six figures burst from the clouds overhead: long, snakelike, glittering. They were a dark, gray-blue color, the same shade of the thick clouds overhead, but their scales gleamed in the stray ray of light. The dragons twisted in the air, the leathery expanses of their wings fluttering under the powerful winds.

They plunged to the earth and landed in a semicircle around Andrew.

Andrew squeezed his eyes shut and fell to his knees. His breath came in hard pants. Six dragons at once -- he felt as if he’d been wrung out and left to hang. They weren’t even large dragons; each was about the size of a horse. But _six_ , each with a full-day contract.

Hands were at his back, slowly pulling him to his feet. He cracked his eyes open, and saw Dawn standing in front him. She pushed his crossbow back into his hands.  

“ _Are you okay_?” she signed.

Jerkily, he nodded.

“ _They’re beautiful_ ,” Dawn commented, gesturing at the dragons.

And weakly, Andrew grinned. The gleaming scales and glittering black eyes were definitely rather pretty.

And that said nothing for their ability in battle.

<<will they let me ride them?>> Dawn asked aloud.

“Uh-huh. Just let it sniff you first. It needs to know you’re my ally.”

<<good. come on. let’s get out of the open.>>

Dawn helped him over to the nearest dragon, and after letting it sniff her hand, climbed onto the dragon’s back and pulled Andrew up behind her.

“I forgot my dramamine,” Andrew said suddenly, as the dragon spread its wings.

But too late. The dragon crouched, and sprang from the earth. The wings caught on the wind, and they were rising, high above the treeline. Andrew yelped, and clung onto Dawn. Below, he could see the rest of the cavalry approaching their dragons.

Thankfully, the flight wasn’t long. Dawn angled her dragon toward the thick of the trees, and it dove down, through a small gap in the branches. There was a team of eight already clustered there -- non-cavalry that had retreated into the woods at Mina’s order.

Puteri reached up to help him down, while Maja did the same for Dawn.

“All set?” Andrew said nervously to the group.

He was met with stiff nods.

“Good,” he said. His strength was beginning to return. “Then let’s wait.”

So they waited. The air temperature dropped and the sky darkened, and Andrew began to fidget. Their limbs grew stiff with tension as they stared up at the sky, waiting for their enemies to reign down hell.

And when the opening shots came, it was with a blaze of fire.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Character deaths! Although minor characters technically, they're written as major characters for this chapter.

_These were the casualties of Italy Squad:_

 

The first attack came from the air. The clatter of helicopter blades was the first sign of the advancing enemy (back behind the treeline, Katie squeezed Andrew’s wrist in warning). Twilight flew silently beside the helicopter, held airborne only by the power the universe was pushing through him. Simone didn’t fly beside him; she hung out the open side door of the copter, while a military pilot directed the craft.

The strength of Posey and Portugal Squad wasn’t enough to make Simone feel steady flying in the air on her own, not while she had a massive bazooka hooked over one shoulder. Besides, despite all her power, she knew how to be cautious; putting herself out in the open like Twilight, vulnerable to the simultaneous attacks of almost fifty hostile Slayers, seemed foolish. And perhaps a little the helicopter was simply a byproduct of Simone’s relationship between technology and strength. In any case, Simone was hunkered down behind the protective metal shell of the helicopter when she aimed her bazooka out the open door and fired.

The rocket whistled through the air and pierced through the trees.

 _Bang_.

The explosion shot through the forest, shockwave bending the branches. A cloud mushroomed up -- dust, debris, and smoke.

And a cry.

The bazooka strike hadn’t hit directly where the third subsquad was lurking in the bramble, but it was close enough. Elizabeth was one of eight thrown back by the blast. A shattered rock hurtled through the air and smashed down on her ankle, and she yelled at the pain.

And for Simone, that was enough. Her senses, already heightened by Slayer strength and training, were dancing with the energy of the dead Slayers and the thrill of battlelust. She tossed aside the bazooka and snatched up a machine gun.

She emptied a dozen shots directly at the source of the sound, with inhuman accuracy. Inhumanly deadly. Three shots found their marks in Elizabeth’s head.

 

_Elizabeth was born in 1988, in upstate New York. Her town was the kind of place that had its public library on the top floor of the school: just two rooms, full mostly of donated books found in old attics. There wasn’t much, but you didn’t need much in a town of under five hundred. And there wasn’t much new, because in a town of under five hundred, things didn’t change. It was one of those towns that perpetually seemed a decade behind -- phones still twist-dialed; children born in the same houses as their parents slept in the same nurseries, which were still painted the same, creamy blue color._

_That was what was at Elizabeth saw at her own core: a timeless childhood. There were seasons, which passed, year after year, but although Elizabeth was taller with each turn through the cycle, she felt that same core of peace. Summers of cloudless blue sky, glittering lakewater, and fireflies flickering as Elizabeth ate watermelon on the porch. Autumns of crunching leaves and the rush of packing her backpack before school the next day. Winters of drawing on glass and watching eagerly as the first drifts of lake-effect snow piled outside. Springs, where she found tadpoles and watched them grow, and sucked nectar out of honeysuckle flowers._

_When she looked back, she didn’t remember the bad days. Normal arguments, the kind that spouted when you paired amicable, cheerful Elizabeth with her rowdy, defiant little sister, Rachel -- but arguments nonetheless. She didn’t remember the time their two cats disappeared within a week of each other. Didn’t remember how miserable it was to be the last child picked up from daycare, at almost ten o’clock, those nights her mom worked late._

_She didn’t remember those moments, because there was a divide in Elizabeth’s memories: between ignorance, and when she finally noticed her father’s depression. In ignorance, she saw paradise. In knowledge, there was helplessness._

_It wasn’t all at once, but around ten, she finally began to register her father’s listlessness and lack of motivation. Part of her new perception, of course, was attributable to the fact that his condition had taken a turn for the worse. Suddenly, he couldn’t get out of bed. Suddenly, his job at the boatyard was at risk. Except it wasn’t sudden at all. Elizabeth had just never noticed. Now, though, it was impossible not to notice, as money dwindled and her father became a ghost. There was nothing Elizabeth could do to help. Nothing to bring her father back; nothing to lessen the burden of their debts. Elizabeth's idyllic years slipped through her fingers like water. Her father barely moved; her mother's eyes were always dark with exhaustion; and worst of all, the spark of ambition faded from Rachel's eyes as the money dried up._

_So, when Elizabeth was sixteen and Andrew Wells showed up at her house one day to tell her she was Chosen, and ask if she would want to join the other Slayers, she jumped on the opportunity. "Your room and board would be paid for," he’d said. That was money her family wouldn't have to spend on her. She was helpless to fix the root of their problems, but this was one thing she could do._

_And so, in order to give her family a reprieve, in order to escape the dark cloud that hung over the home, she took up the mantle of Slayer. That had been just six months ago._

 

Twilight descended into the trees, his dark cape fluttering behind him. He landed soundlessly on the forest floor. Emotionless eyes pierced the shadows.

Just three meters away, two Slayers crouched in the dirt, barely daring to breathe. One was Kali; the other was Mary

And Twilight stood there, motionless. Waiting. The helicopter still _thwuped_ overhead; dust hung in the air from the bazooka strike. The pause in gunfire felt as brittle as ice.

Kali was trembling. Her arms were bent under her, but she couldn’t hold the position. Her palms were slipping, against the dirt and stiff dead leaves. Leaves that would crunch if she shifted. Mary shot her a terrified stare, but it did nothing to adjust her hold.

Kali slipped.

Twilight’s head jerked around, and for just a second, his hidden eyes blazed a bright, unnatural green. There was a flash of gold like a lion’s pelt through the trees -- Kali didn’t even have time to yell. A rush of movement, and then she collapsed into the dirt, her throat slashed by what looked like enormous claws.

Mary squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to think about anything. Miraculously, she didn’t make a sound.

 

_In the Hindu faith, Kali was an aspect of the goddess Durga -- the fierce aspect; the aspect devoted to the destruction of evil forces. She wasn’t just about destruction, of course. She was the protector of time, the goddess of change, power, and preservation. She had a maternal side; she was the symbol of freedom._

_All this, the Kali of Italy Squad knew. But when Andrew first called her to detail the destiny that had been thrust upon her, she couldn’t help but to think that her mother had named her aptly._

_Kali had never liked fighting, which was ironic, because she fought all the time. Not with her fists, but with her words. She was the only child of her parents, and she felt like she was always butting heads with her mother. It didn’t even matter what it was about. Kali wanted to go one way; her mother wanted to go another._

_Kali wanted to play basketball with the boy next door, but her mother wanted her to play with the girl down the street instead. Kali wanted to play badminton, but her mother wanted her to play tennis instead. Her mother wanted her to give a rakhi to her cousin for Raksha Bandhan, but Kali didn’t even_ like _that cousin and wanted to give the rakhi to a friend at school. If Kali liked green, her mother would like red._

_Every day was a fight. Some were worse than others. Before Kali was even ten, her father had thrown up his hands in defeat and stopped trying to interfere. “It’s like you were born to fight, the both of you!” he would declare._

_Kali wanted to join the diversity club; her mother wanted her to join the debate team instead. Kali wanted to date the boy who had asked her out; her mother didn’t think she was ready. Kali wanted to study alone for the A-levels; her mother signed her up for group study anyway. And they fought._

_Things finally settled down when Kali took a dorm when she started uni. Suddenly, when she wasn’t living with her mother, their conversations were calmer, less tense. Comfortable._

_She was eighteen. On the way back from class one evening, Kali was walking with a friend, when an enormous man slipped out from behind a building and snatched Kali’s arm. His other hand went to her purse._

_Kali didn’t even think. Something was roaring within her, and as if it was something she’d practiced a thousand times before, she leaned back, pushing his arm into a strange angle, and wrenched her own arm away. At the same time, her heel smashed his toes. She spun on the spot and threw a palm-strike against his nose. Another blow to his shoulder, and the man flew back – much further than she should have been capable of throwing him. He lay unconscious on the pavement._

_As Kali stood there, stunned, her friend grabbed her wrist and dragged her back. “Come on, let’s get out of here!”_

_Kali followed after wordlessly. All she could think was how she’d felt possessed by another entity. One full of anger and danger and power – like her namesake._

_The next day, Andrew called._

_Kali’s mother hadn’t wanted her to go. But Kali knew the stories; she knew why the goddess Kali was an important force in the cosmos. Destruction of evil protected the good. And it was all too clear that the world needed that right now; the existence of vampires was becoming common knowledge, and no one really thought what happened in Sunnydale was an earthquake._

_“You named me,” Kali pointed out to her mother._

_They’d fought._

 

One death each for Simone and Twilight.

In the lobby of Wolfram and Hart, a sudden screech rent the air. It wasn’t a human or even animal screech. It was the kind of screech of infrastructure collapsing.

Jonathan, along with everyone else in the lobby, stared upwards. There was a groan, and a series of pops. The ceiling was bending, slowly – but so was the air just under it, making everything seem to shimmer and warp.

“Cordelia, what’s happening?!” Jonathan cried.

It was Wesley who answered: “The walls between the dimensions are crumbling.”

\----

Bazookas weren't the typical weapon against small forest squads. They’d been developed as anti-tank weaponry and were specialized for penetration. But Simone liked big guns, and when a bazooka was fired at a forest squad, it wasn’t exactly ineffective. There was the initial explosion, of course. And with that, came a fire risk.

Smoke seeped through the trees. There wasn’t much flame, but the smoke that spilled out of the smoldering leaf debris produced a haze strong enough to reduce visibility.

Isabella’s squad was scrambling back – little by little, trying not to draw attention to their movement. Isabella had her arm wrapped over the neck of her Water Dragon as she led it through the trees with them. Its eyes were closed against the smoke.

Isabella glanced back, to where the smoke was thickest. She couldn’t see any flames, but the smoke was still pouring in. Her heart pounded in her chest. Fire could threaten the whole squad, but they couldn’t go out into the field just yet. They had no backup; they’d be slaughtered.

The dragon flicked its tail with each step it took, clearly unsettled by the smoke. Isabella’s gaze slid down – and then she noticed the dragon’s footprints.

Each step had pressed into the dirt, leaving behind a clear print. And those prints were pooling with water. As she watched, the dragon left fresh prints, and water began to swirl up from the center.

Isabella froze. She stared at her dragon. _Water Dragon_.

Caprice was passing by Isabella’s right, and Isabella threw out a hand to grab at her elbow.

 _“Water dragon fight fire_ ,” she signed hastily, when Caprice looked at her.

Caprice’s eyes widened. After a moment, she nodded. “ _Be careful_.”

Isabella grinned, and leaned forward to kiss her best friend’s cheek, before swinging herself up onto her dragon’s back. A telepathic whisper to the dragon: _go_. And the dragon turned, and sprinted back toward the thick of the smoke.

She knew she didn’t have much time; no doubt, Simone or Twilight would recognize the movement of a Water Dragon. But she had to get there. She had to protect her Squad. Protect her friends. Protect Caprice.

Isabella bent down closer to the dragon’s neck, trying to minimize the leaves they rustled. The smoke was getting so thick a cough was building in her chest, but she forced it down.

They found the clearing where the smoke had rendered the trees to wisps of dark shadow against the billows of white. Orange flickered on the bed of leaves and up a half-dozen trunks.

 _Put it out_ , Isabella instructed her dragon, and it obeyed, spinning through the clearing, with water erupting at every surface it touched. Isabella clung on, grinning at the hisses of flame sputtering out. Smoke thickened, and that cough was becoming almost unbearable. But the fire was gone.

And then there was a flash of a different color flame. Isabella caught a glimpse of the snarling face of a lion, enveloped in tongues of green fire.

Searing pain shot through her body – she hadn’t even seen the movement, but the lion’s claws had gouged deep into her chest. Isabella yelled.

The lion pounced.

 

_Isabella was one of the few members of Italy Squad who actually held an Italian passport. She’d grown up in Rome, born to the billionaire Bulgari family. Her childhood had been luxury, full of silk birthday dresses and hors d'oeuvres sprinkled with edible gold. She’d been six years old and clinging to her father’s leg at formal functions, her hair shining and pinned in elaborate spirals. And when she looked up at the ceiling of the ballroom, the lights danced like magic._

_But her childhood had also been full of rules and steps and postures and carefully-chosen words. Her life, her image, was yet another ballroom dance to learn. “Shoulders straight.” “Don’t laugh so loudly.” “Pronounce your words more clearly.” Step, slide, close. “Remind me, cara: why wouldn’t you pair this wine with seabass?” “You cannot put begonias in a birthday bouquet!” “The Dolce boy will ask you to dinner. You will be expected to accept.” Step, slide, close._

_Isabella wasn’t an overtly rebellious sort, but the rules and expectations sometimes made her feel as if she were only ever waltzing through a dream. Never truly alive. When Mr. Wells showed up at one of her personal functions, impeccably dressed in a neat tuxedo, and offered her a place on his Squad, she felt, despite the thousands of lira that had ever been spent on her, as if he were handing her the best gift she had ever been given._

_Being a Slayer was fun, exhilarating. It was sneaking out of bedroom window with tied sheets to go on patrol; it was learning to throw knives and shoot arrows and a hundred other skills her parents would have heart attacks to think of her practicing; it was laying sprawled on the lounge of HQ, watching movies with other girls._

_But being a Slayer became something more than that. Isabella had never anticipated how dearly she would care for her squadmates. Each became her sister – or brother, in the cases of Cole, Arjun, and Andrew – and she loved each so fiercely that sometimes she felt she could not speak for the force of it._

_And there was Caprice. The most unexpected, most blessed, gift of this entire unexpected and blessed turn of events. The best friend Isabella had ever had. She laughed a little too loud, and always made Isabella laugh with her. There was a mischievous smile playing about her lips – and her lips were softly shaped and perfectly pink. Isabella had always thought it was a shame no one had fallen in love with Caprice yet. She and Caprice even shared a birthday, and Mr. Wells once brought them to the opera to celebrate._

_To Isabella, being a Slayer was life. And to Isabella, life was excitement, and laughter, and love._

 

A crack split the ceiling of Wolfram and Hart. Jonathan threw up his hands instinctively, to protect himself from raining debris -- but there was no plaster, no flaked paint. Only brilliant light streaming in from the fissure.

“ _Shit_ ,” Cordelia hissed, and the vehemence in her voice made Jonathan’s heart leap to his throat. “There’s no time. We need to get the portal makers up there right now!”

Jonathan spun around, and Larry was behind him, looking grim. He held out a hand toward Jonathan.

“Whaddya say? Ready to try to save the world?”

Jonathan managed a weak smile.

\----

Twilight’s allies poured into the field and forest. They were brought in by helicopters, by foot, by teleportation. Human allies, demon allies. Some had no idea of the destruction they were helping to cause, presuming they were only bringing about the start of the new world order. Others knew they fought on the side of the end, and didn’t care.

There was a pop at the edge of the trees, and Amy and Warren shimmered into existence, followed by a dozen armed military troops.

As soon as he was solid, Warren sagged. Infirmity rolled off him in waves. His movements were sluggish; his exposed muscle and sinew was a ghastly grey color. It looked as if his remaining flesh was ready to fall away from his skeleton.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Warren croaked. “I’m too sick. You have to fix the spell!”

“There’s nothing wrong with the spell,” Amy snapped.

“‘There’s nothing wrong with the spell’? Are you nuts? Does this look like ‘nothing wrong’?!”

“Shut up,” Amy hissed. “I know what I’m doing.” She grabbed Warren’s wrist and dragged him roughly into the woods. The troops followed after them.

Still gripping Warren’s wrist, Amy threw out a hand in front of her and spoke a few words under her breath. The air shimmered in front of her.

Up in the trees, a few dozen meters away, Cole’s breath froze in his chest. He could feel Amy reaching for his visual illusions, seeking to grab hold of the fabric of his spells and tear them away. Below him, his subsquad clung to the shadows, veiled by his spells of unnoticeability. If Amy tore away his spells, they’d be exposed.

Cole scrambled for the pack at his waist. He rifled through bundles of lavender and agrimony, and dug in past the tea lights and his lighter, until finally, his fingers curled around the rough fabric of a hex bag.

Cole tugged out the bag and held it up, six inches in front of his face, turning the pouch so sowilo rune scratched on the fabric faced him. The bitter scent of belladonna leaves tickled his nose. As Cole’s fingers tightened around the pouch, he felt the magic in his chest pulse with power. He breathed, letting the extra strength weave out across his subsquad.

Amy scowled. There was something there; she could feel it. But the spell slipped from her grasp before she could tear it down.

Her grip tightened on Warren’s wrist. He gasped as a wave of nausea coursed through him.

Amy splayed out her hand, and sparks flew from her fingertips. There -- the fabric of the spell brushed against her mind like the rough touch of sandpaper. She snatched at it.

Cole bit back a swear as he felt Amy’s psychic fingertips tear into his spell. He released the power-enhancing pouch and instead snatched up the bundle of agrimony and his lighter. With fumbling fingers, he managed to extract a single dried stalk of yellow flowers from the bundle and flick open the lighter.

The flame caught at the tip of the stalk. Amy stumbled back, as if shoved by an invisible force.  

Anger flared in her features. “I know you’re there, witch!” Amy hissed.

As if Cole was trying to keep secret. But better her attention on him than the squad. “ _Retreat_ ,” he signed furiously down at the Slayers crouched on the ground, his hands visible only to the others enveloped in the spell. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold Amy back.

The Slayers began to crawl back, vanishing through the bushes and trees. Cole kept pushing out power to the concealment spell that hid their movements, feeling sweat prickle at his forehead as he pushed himself to the limits of his ability.

“You think you can hide from me?” Amy asked, a note of laughter in her voice. “The stink of your magic is all over the place.”

She bundled the illusion into her own power and tugged. It held. That didn’t matter. She’d found what she was looking for: the signature of the caster. It was a trail that wrapped all around the clearing, and led right to the sycamore where Cole was hiding.

Amy strolled to the sycamore and grinned up the trunk. She couldn’t see Cole through the spell, but she didn’t need to. She lifted her eyebrows.

“Found you.”

A flick of her wrist, and a bolt of energy and pure, concentrated ill luck erupted in midair to strike the branch he was crouched on. It cracked. With a yell, Cole fell from his perch and crashed down to the forest floor.

When Cole hit the ground, a sickening snap echoed through the woods. Cole lay motionless in the leaves, his dirt-streaked body suddenly visible as the spell broke. His neck was bent at an unnatural angle.

At Amy’s side, Warren fell to his knees, too faint to stand.

 

 _Cole was born to magic_. _While most of the world was just learning of the existence of the supernatural as Slayers emerged across the globe, Cole was practicing spells alongside his parents and siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles. Magic was a family tradition, had been for at least four generations. His mother translated archaic spells; his father tracked down and sold talismans. Cole slept in a crib protected by charms swinging from his mobile, while his sisters sent illusions of fairies dancing through their playroom._

_There were at least three dozen practicing magicians in Cole’s extended family, and as Cole grew, it became apparent that he was the best of them all. Not by raw power, but by dedication of study. He’d learned early on that what was quickest to bring a smile to his parents’ lips, what was most likely to get him a pat on the back, was achievement in magic. And as one of six children, he was desperate for every smile, every pat. From the time he could read, he was devouring spell books._

_His siblings all specialized: healing spells, or botany, animal magic, financial magic, or fortune telling. Cole, however, studied it all. He studied until his eyes hurt, then trimmed herbs until his fingers were raw. He chose study over play because he’d rather speak with a willow tree than toss a ball. After all, his parents were more interested in what the willow tree had to say than who won the ballgame._

_He was the favorite child, and he knew it, which made him unpopular with his siblings and cousins. That didn’t matter to him. In his mind, his cousins and siblings all could have applied themselves as he did, and the fact that only he bothered to do so made him the most worthy of them all._

_And then, when Cole was eighteen, Slayers were Called around the globe. It was perfect timing. He was on the verge of leaving home, to make a magical mark on the world as was always expected of him. Now, Slayer Organization was looking for Wiccans to join their ranks._

_“Imagine the honor,” his parents had said. “Protecting Slayers! Working with Willow Rosenberg!”_

_So, of course, Cole had joined._

_In Slayer Organization, Cole found himself confronted with people who were more powerful than he could ever dream of attaining, who had never studied magic a day in their lives. Girls who woke up one day with ancient strength coursing through their veins. The part of him that had studied until the sun painted streaks across the morning sky wanted to hate them for it. But at the same time, those same books he’d studied until dawn instilled in him a deep respect for Slayers. For weeks, he wrestled with the warring feelings of frustration and awe, never sure which would come out on top._

_As he settled into the catacombs of Italy Squad, he watched the new Slayers’ dedication and effort. It wasn’t all study; there were some hours spent pouring over books and notes from Mr. Wells’ lectures, granted, but there was also plenty of physical training and psychological adaptation._

_Like for Posey. It had been impossible not to notice how much she tried. She held her weapons as her arms trembled with nerves, but set her jaw and forced herself through the forms, time after time after time. Oh, and she studied -- she was Mr. Wells’ best demonologist, after all -- but that was nothing on the sheer drive she showed as she pushed herself to learn to fight. As Cole watched her, he felt his understanding of worth and effort and hard work shift. For the first time, he didn’t feel as if his hours of study put himself on top._

_When Posey died, Cole could never shake the hollow feeling that she deserved so much more._

_Turned out, fighting with Italy Squad truly was an honor, just as his parents had said. But not, as he once thought, because it was a chance to show off his magic. It was an honor because he got to share time with his Squad. Because he got to fight by their side, and protect them, any way he knew how._

 

Almost immediately, Jonathan registered that something was strange about this trip to Earth. He had been braced for that submerged, underwater feeling, but it never came; as he tumbled toward Earth, he felt as present, as alert, as he ever was in heaven or hell. Not that he’d been consciously aware of his sense of self fading the last few times he travelled to the world of the living, but somehow, _not_ feeling himself slip away was more glaring than any change he’d felt before.

And then, when his feet hit the ground -- well. _His feet hit the ground_.

He was solid.

On Earth.

Jonathan spun around. Cordelia was standing next to him, and a hard look crossed her face as she took in their physical forms. All around them, other souls were popping into view along the treeline of the hill. Some looked as confused as Jonathan; others had never been to Earth and didn’t register that something was off.

“You think Wolfram and Hart did this?” Jonathan asked quickly. “To help us stop Twilight?”

“No,” Cordelia replied. “We never signed a contract. And having bodies doesn’t help us, does it? On a _battlefield_?”

Jonathan swallowed. “But we’re already dead.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t get hurt, does it? No, us being here like this is because the dimensions are collapsing.”

Jonathan turned his head, staring uneasily around the field, as if expecting to see doorways into other dimensions at every corner. Then, Cordelia spoke again:

“There is one upside to this, though.”

“What?” Jonathan asked.

She flashed him a small smile. “If the rules between the worlds of the dead and the world of the living are blurring, we don’t need anchors.”  

“But what about the Powers That Be trying to stop us?”

“Come on, Jonathan. I know you’re not a higher power, but surely you have _some_ sense of spirit. Can’t you feel it? Why did you think they wanted Posey to bring us up before the fighting started? Because with the walls between all the dimensions weakening now, when the Powers try to grab us, there will be too much stuff coming in from other dimensions for them to catch us.”

She grinned.

“We’re on our own.”

\----

As Cole’s heart stopped beating, the spell broke. The Slayers of his subsquad felt the magic slide off them like water, and they exchanged panicked stares. Indira registered what the broken spell must mean, and her eyes welled up with tears.

“Come on,” Natalia hissed, quickly grabbing Indira by the arm. “We have to get deeper into the woods. Right now.”

Too late. The trees were too thin.

A shout: “Targets sighted!” And a blaze of bullets suddenly burst over the Slayers’ heads as the troops lagging behind Amy and Warren opened fire.

“ _Down_!” Natalia yelled.

The Slayers hit the ground fast. They covered their heads with their hands as bullets sent chips of bark flying off the trees overhead.

But they couldn’t stay still. The troops were advancing. “Let’s go -- move!” Natalia shouted. She scrambled forward, dragging herself on her elbows and belly. Indira followed, a half second behind. Up ahead, Natalia saw the soles of Sophie’s shoes vanish under a thick bush.

The troops were closing in. The Slayers couldn’t make it further, without getting up and running, but they were too much out in the open. Natalia dragged Indira back toward a low-hanging rock, and her other hand shot to the supply pack at her waist.

She found the smoke bomb. A bit more modern a weapon than most of the supplies they owned, but defense was defense. It wasn’t a gun.

A flick to arm the weapon, and she lobbed it out behind her.

White smoke poured out of the device, mingling with the lingering haze of the earlier fire. It quickly filled the clearing so thickly that the bushes and trees became slightly darker smudges of shadow on a backdrop of shifting white.

The troops behind them gave a shout.

“C’mon,” Natalia hissed again, more quietly this time. She and Indira scrambled to their feet, and they raced for the thicker forest, shrouded by smoke. The other Slayers followed suit.

Their movements set the forest rustling, and the troops opened fire again. But they couldn’t see well through the smoke, and the bullets lodged themselves harmlessly into the earth or the trees.

They raced after the fleeing Slayers.

Suddenly, Sophie shrieked.

Another soldier had suddenly appeared in front of her. It wasn’t clear if he was part of another squadron coming in from another position, or if he’d looped around from the troops behind to cut them off. It didn’t matter. He had his gun pointed directly at her at point-blank range.

But Natalia was only a half-step behind Sophie. As the soldier’s finger tightened on the trigger, she sprang forward. She caught Sophie around the waist, and the two of them crashed to the ground as the screech of bullets shot six inches over the tops of their heads.

Natalia didn’t even pause. She rolled with the impact, got her feet under her, and slammed upwards, directly into the soldier’s chest. He let out a pained _oof_ , his gun dropping a few inches. And then Natalia’s hands were on his arm, twisting it unnaturally.

The soldier yelled, and Sophie snatched the weapon out of his hands. As if it were made of clay, she bent the gun in two and dropped it disdainfully to the forest floor.

The soldier snarled in fury. He tugged fruitlessly at the arm still held captive by Natalia, then kicked out her knees. Natalia sidestepped to the clear, and rolled with the movement, bringing them both to the ground to pin the soldier beneath her. One good blow to the head, and he would be unconscious.

But as she drew her fist back to deliver the blow, she suddenly felt a searing, indescribably all-consuming pain. Her entire being exploded with agony. Her hand flew to the source of the pain.

Protruding from her stomach, at the end of a long laceration that began at the center of her chest, right under her ribs, was a knife bayonet. Two inches were exposed past her skin. The knife was nine inches long.

Natalia’s eyes went wide. And slowly, she collapsed.

 

_Natalia was born in the Soviet Union. When she was three years old, the Union collapsed, and her family found themselves living in the first independent Ukraine since the beginning of the century. When she was five, her father went over to the United States for better pay. When she was seven, Natalia and her mother joined him._

_Natalia instantly missed the Ukraine. They’d come to the United States for better fortunes, to escape the economic and social upheaval of the post-communist world. But while her parents watched Romania fall to violent revolution, pinched coins and wondered if their money would be worth anything tomorrow, Natalia remembered the Ukraine as the place where she played with stray cats and shared tea with her grandmother and rediscovered the Ukrainian language with the neighborhood children._

_In America, she was the outsider. She went to public school, and instantly, she was the kid with the slow, accented English, who came from Russia and celebrated Christmas at the wrong time._

_“Not Russia,” she would always protest. They would never listen._

_But that didn’t matter to Natalia. She didn’t want to be one of her classmates anyway. And so she learned to spit fire at them with her words, and that if she shouted Russian or Ukranian at them, they would assume she was swearing, while she could always honestly tell the teacher she’d just called them ‘a cabbage’._

_She fought with her classmates, and at home, she fought with her parents. She didn’t want to assimilate; they told her it would be better for all of them if she did. But she was stubborn._

_Natalia eventually lost her accent, but she held herself at a distance from her classmates. She kept her head high, and when someone would ask if she was a spy, she’d spit back: “Yes, and my next mission is to assassinate you.”_

_And then, when she was ten, her baby sister was born._

_Her little sister was everything Natalia wasn’t. Everything in a daughter her parents had hoped to have. Meek, adoring, gentle, feminine. An American citizen._

_The rift between Natalia and her family grew, as her parents idolized the sweeter girl, who wore flowers in her hair and learned English from the American daycare. Natalia didn’t care. She was her own person and didn’t care for her parent’s approval (or so she told herself)._

_She got in a fight just before high school graduation. Punched a kid in the jaw. She didn’t remember why, now. Maybe he called her “red”; maybe he tried to steal her book for laughs. Either way, his slight gave him a broken jaw. And the next day, Andrew intercepted her on the way home from the library._

_It was easy to turn her back on everything her parents wanted for her. College, proper assimilation, a husband? That wasn’t her. Natalia chose Italy Squad instead._

_And in Italy Squad, she found, for possibly the first time in her life, somewhere to belong. The very first night, she got in a heated argument with another Slayer. They debated furiously about the merits of vampire lore, and Natalia did not hold back. She didn’t raise her voice, but she was blunt. She had her point, and said what she needed to to get it across._

_When Andrew approached her at the end of the night, Natalia braced herself to shoot a smart remark his way and distance herself from the Squad, as she had with every other group in her life._

_But there was awe in Andrew’s eyes, and he told her: “You remind me of an amazing woman I used to know. Her name was Anya. She died saving the world.” He paused, then said: “I think you’ll be amazing, too.”_

_He didn’t realize, then, that his words were a curse._

 

Twilight had a helicopter. But Slayer Organization had planes.

The hum of engines became a roar, and then a V-formation of a more than a half-dozen aircraft appeared over the cusp of the hill. They soared through the darkening sky, as their sidedoors opened, and they unloaded their cargo: Slayers.

Slayers from Brazil, from Tokyo, from Scotland. From Ohio, from South Africa, from India. They parachuted into the battlefield, armed with swords and bows and axes, protected by kevlar vests and helmets.

In the forest, Dawn grabbed Andrew’s shoulder and pointed up, at a parachute slowly drifting down. Leah’s long red hair flowed out under her helmet.

Andrew grinned, and sagged back against a tree. Relief was written in every line of his features.

 

_In the five minutes it took for Slayer Organization to arrive, five members of Italy Squad were already dead. That was barely a fraction of the final death toll at Twilight’s hands._

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

Coming in behind the formation of planes, enormous and menacing and alien, was Spike’s spaceship. The belly of the ship skimmed just a few inches over the tops of the trees, and the bulbous body cast a wide shadow in the fading light of the day. As the shadow slid across the field and the forest, faces turned skyward. Some of Twilight’s forces shrank back; members of Italy Squad grinned and shook each other’s arms in excitement.

Buffy stood at the front of the ship, her arms crossed as she stared out the viewport. Behind her, assembled Spike, Giles, Willow, and Xander, among dozens of Slayers and insect crewmembers.

“Get Brazil One on that squad of soldiers who just went into the forest! Tokyo Four, cut off the demon gang coming up the mountain!” Buffy called, directing subforces of the global squads with rapidfire commands. “Willow, how’s the firearm suppressant spell going?”

“Just waiting for our planes to clear the range. Don’t want to shut down combustion while they’re still in our space.”

“Good. Xander, where’s Andrew?” Buffy asked, turning to look at him.

Xander glanced up from the communication console he was manning. “He and his Squad split and took shelter in the woods.”

“And Dawn?”

“Sorry. I’m talking with Claire. She said Dawn was in Andrew’s team, but Claire’s not with them.”

Buffy’s lips pressed firmly together. “Willow, can you tap into Andrew’s glasses and send him a remote message? Tell him our formation and to get out here if he can. We need to discuss tactics.”

“On it.”

Adrenaline sparked like electricity through Buffy’s mind. She stared back out the window, her eyes flitting across the landscape as she categorized threats. There was no sign of Twilight; he must also be in the trees. Her gaze trained on the shadows of the forest, as if hoping to make out a flash of Twilight’s dark mask.

“Huh,” Spike said suddenly. “Look at that.”

He was standing beside Buffy, his eyes fixed at the bottom of the viewport. His eyebrows had arched impossibly high, and there was that small, awed smile playing about his lips. “Buff, you might want to take a look at this.”

“What--?”

Spike pointed. “Ain’t that Cordelia Chase?”

Buffy froze. On the field below, where Buffy could have sworn there was nothing a second ago, was a crowd of people -- at least a hundred, unarmed, and not in uniform. They looked like civilians, except civilians didn’t stay so closely together and not-panicky when they ended up on the side of a battlefield. Spike was pointing directly at the leader: a familiar, tall figure, with dark curls and a self-assured stance. At first, Buffy couldn’t see her face, but as the shadow of the ship slid over the ground, the woman looked up.

 _Cordelia_.

But Cordelia was dead. Buffy had the heard the news, had heard of the funeral a week too late to attend herself. Xander had seen the grave himself. Immediately, Buffy’s mind began to flit through a thousand possibilities. Was the First back? Had Cordelia been turned?

But the small form next to Cordelia was familiar as well.

“Holy crap,” Xander said, echoing Buffy’s thoughts. “Is that Jonathan?!”

And then a sharp, tearful gasp from Willow: “ _Tara_?!”

The First didn’t take more than one form at a time. Jonathan and Tara had both definitely died before they could be turned.

“Spike, I need to get down there, right now,” Buffy declared abruptly. “Get me down there.”

“Buffy,” Giles broke in. “I don’t think I have to tell you that the dead appearing is never a good sign--”

But Buffy turned sharply to him, steel in her eyes. “And if there’s something evil at work here, I need to kill it. _Nothing_ gets to borrow our friends’ faces.”

Giles gazed at her. A beat, and he inclined his head.

“I’m coming with you,” Xander said firmly.

“Me too,” said Willow. Her voice shook.

“As will I,” Giles put in, after a pause.

“Good,” Buffy replied. “Willow, can you get us down there?”

“Yeah. I just need a like, airlock, or something, to take us out of.”

“My bugs will show you to a hatch,” Spike said. “Sebastian! Get these nice people down to the ground.”

“Of course, sir.” One of the enormous bugs skittered up to them and bent its subjointed body toward Buffy in a strange facsimile of a bow. “If you’ll come with me, miss.”

Curtly, Buffy nodded. “Rowena! Take over for me. Direct our ground troops. Renee, you take over for Xander. Stella, you have Willow’s place.”

A chorus of “aye, ma’am!” sounded in reply.

As Rowena stepped up to the viewscreen, Buffy suddenly grabbed her wrist. “Rowena,” she said.

Rowena met her gaze steadily.

“Try not to lose anyone more than you have to.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rowena replied grimly.

\----

On the ground, Cordelia was the captain in a sea of confusion. None of the dead souls had expected to find themselves solid on the middle of a battlefield; they didn’t have weapons, and they didn’t have defenses. Sure, nothing could kill them _again_ , but certain instincts -- namely self-preservation -- died hard. And already dead or not, getting wounded on the battlefield wasn’t exactly Cordelia’s idea of a good time.

They’d appeared on the far side of the field, partly down the hill; Twilight’s forces had barely had time to register their appearance, let alone muster a response. Cordelia wasn’t waiting around for them to organize.

“Come on, guys, get back -- back! Let’s be smart about this; find a sheltered place we can open a portal from!”

Jonathan pointed up the hill, to a thick patch of woods. “If we get up there, we’ll be shielded, but we can still see the battle.”

“Good thinking. Let’s make our way up there.”

There was a _pop_ at her right. Cordelia jumped when Dennis appeared out of nowhere.

“ _Dennis_! What are you doing here?!”

Dennis blinked. “You cut off the link and said you don’t need anchors. So I came up to help.”

“Oh, my god, Dennis, did I tell you to do that? There are _guns_ out here, and you can still get shot even if we don’t have to worry about death. Now I have to protect you, as well as the portal makers! Go back to hell, Dennis!”

Dennis hesitated. “No,” he said finally. “You don’t have to protect me. But you’re right; there are guns up here, and someone needs to protect the portal team so you guys can focus. Let us help.”

Other souls that had been drafted as anchors were appearing on the field. They clustered close to the portal team, shielding them with their bodies.

“Oh my god. Fine. I don’t have time for this.” Cordelia spun around.

A creaking overhead caught Cordelia’s attention. She looked up; the ship that had appeared in the sky moments ago was opening a hatch on its underbelly, and as she watched, a swirling golden bubble, the size of a small car, emerged from the gap

The bubble turned in the air, and dropped directly toward the cluster of souls.

The dead souls scrambled back. Fear and apprehension darkened their expressions; they expected an explosion. But the bubble was slowing down as it grew closer to the earth; it wasn’t a shell of some kind of weapon.

Cordelia took a step forward.

The grass rippled under the bubble as it touched down. There was a heartbeat that felt like an age -- and then the bubble vanished. When Cordelia recognized the figure at the front, a half-pace ahead of the bubble’s caster, a smile flit across her lips.

“Hey, Buffy,” she said casually. “Good of you to drop in. I can’t be doing your _whole_ job for you.”

Buffy didn’t smile. “How do I know you’re really Cordelia Chase?”

Behind her, Xander, Willow, and Giles, spread out from the confines of the bubble. Xander was frowning at her, his jaw set. Willow was almost trembling, her gaze flitting desperately around the assembled souls. Giles was watching everything with a clinical, detached air.

Cordelia’s eyebrows lifted. Of course, she couldn’t really blame them for their suspicion. But at the same time, they really needed to get past this. And she _had_ hoped for a little more grandeur for her great return from heaven. “What, you think I’d let anything else impersonate me? Been there, done that. Not happening ever again.”

“It really is Cordelia!” Jonathan put in quickly. “She’s a higher power, so she’s been helping from heaven. W-we found out about the Twilight thing, so we’ve been organizing to help!”

And the nervousness in his voice was so _Jonathan_ that Cordelia could watch Xander visibly relax.

And then: “Willow? Is that you?”

“Tara?” Willow cried, her voice breaking.

A rush of movement burst from the crowd of people behind Cordelia, and Tara rushed out and threw her arms around Willow. Willow latched on immediately, her eyes wet as she pressed her face into Tara’s shoulder. She clutched onto Tara’s shirt, as if desperate to assure herself of Tara’s tangibility.

“Tara -- Tara, baby, is it really you?” Willow choked out.

“It’s really me,” Tara murmured back. Her hands found Willow’s jaw, and she coaxed her to look up. “It’s really me.”

“How -- I . . . _how_?”

“Yeah, really good question,” Xander broke in. “ _How_?!”

“What, were any of you listening to Jonathan?” Cordelia replied.

“Look, I--” Xander began, but he was interrupted from a sudden cry from above.

“ _Hit the ground_!”

Barely had they done so that a blaze of bullets shot right over their heads. Cordelia, wincing as stones dug into her side, managed to turn her head upwards. A gorgeous, dark grey dragon twisted overhead and then streaked toward a dark shape a few dozen meters away. The unfortunate figure had barely enough time to shout before it was bowled over.

Cordelia could just make out the dragon’s cough of triumph. Then, digging its heels into the earth, it burst up again. It swerved to the right to avoid another round of bullets from another shooter, then twisted back to the group of dead souls and their visitors.

The dragon skidded its landing, and Dawn and Andrew slid off its back. They both looked rather dazed by the flying. Andrew looked faintly nauseous.

“We need to get out of here,” Dawn said quickly. “The troops are getting in range of you guys. I swear, it’s almost like Twilight doesn’t _like_ us.”

“Hey, Willow,” Andrew piped up. “That was a pretty cool trick with the glasses. I didn’t know you could send messages over them--”

And then, almost simultaneously, he and Dawn noticed who Buffy and the others were talking to. Dawn stiffened, and Andrew physically recoiled, his face pale.

Dawn took a rigid step toward Tara, who was just picking herself up from the ground. “Who are you?” she hissed.

Andrew stared, slack-jawed, at Jonathan. “The First,” he gasped.

“No!” Willow cried. “It’s not the First! Look, they’re tangible.” She grabbed Tara’s hand and tangled their fingers together.

“Then it’s an illusion,” Andrew said, in a quavering voice. “Like, what you did, with Warren.”

“It’s not an illusion!” Jonathan snapped, even as Willow’s expression hardened. “Seriously, Andrew. I’m the one who helped you clean that rash you got in Mexico -- you know, the one that looked a bit like a sombrero?”

Andrew paused. “I never told anyone else about that.”  

“Yeah, that’s kind of my point.”

“Jonathan?” Andrew murmured. He took a tentative, half-aborted step forward.

And then yelped as Dawn wrenched him down. Another soldier had entered range and opened fire.

“Drogon, take them out!” Dawn cried at the dragon, and it roared its assent.

The dragon spread its wings and thrust up from the ground, sending gusts of wind whipping through their hair and clothes.

“Dawn was right,” Buffy cried out, over the wind. “We need to get out of here. Get into the woods!”

As Cordelia scrambled up, she realized that most of the dead souls had already retreated into the forest at her earlier command. Only Jonathan, Tara, and Dennis were still by her side.

The group rushed back toward the line of trees behind them, ducking under branches and around bushes to get into the thickest areas. The dead souls were lurking in the shadows, looking frightened: they would need to be organized and and calmed to do anything. The only reason the dead souls weren’t in full-out panic was that most of them had been dead long enough for mortal danger to have slightly less of an effect on their psyches.

“Willow,” Xander panted, when they breached the treeline. “How about that firearm suppressant spell, huh?”

His words seemed to jerk Willow out of a daze. “What? O-oh, yeah.”

She lifted a trembling hand and sucked in a visible breath.

Tara reached for her other hand. “Do you want my help?”

“Could you?”

Tara smiled.

So together, they entwined their fingers and lifted their hands, joining their power as Willow chanted the incantation. Her eyes did not go black; her veins did not darken. A bright light of gold glimmered at the point where their hands joined -- for a moment, it pulsed. And then it burst out, a dome of gold sweeping through the forest and through the field, right to the other side of the ring of trees. The rattling of gunfire ceased.

A dark shape of a helicopter dropped from the sky, hurtling toward the earth like a stone.

“Willow!” Tara cried, pointing at it.

It was emblazoned with American military markings -- clearly one of Twilight’s forces. But as one, Willow and Tara reached out and shouted a spell. The helicopter’s descent slowed, and they lowered the craft safely out of sight, into the thick of trees at the other side of the field.

Willow looked back to Tara, her eyes wet.

“Did it work on the guns?” Andrew said worriedly, moving toward them to peer through the trees.

“No one’s firing anymore,” Dawn told him, when he glanced back at them.

“Good. That won’t fix everything, ‘cause like, Twilight also has demons and magic. But at least now it won’t be like going up against a Romulan warbird with a hand phaser set on stun.”

Suddenly, Jonathan frowned, staring at Andrew. “Wait. How have you been hearing us? I thought you were deaf.”

Cordelia blinked. In the excitement of the situation, she hadn’t even thought about it. But now, it was clear he hadn’t heard the gunfire fall silent.

Andrew suddenly straightened, smiling nervously at Jonathan. “You . . . you know about that?”

“Yeah. I mean, not to sound all Agent Smith, but I’ve been watching you. From heaven.” Jonathan shrugged. “Just, you know. Seeing what you’re up to.”

“Oh. Well, I know what you say because my glasses are enchanted. They subtitle what you say.”

“Wait, really? That’s actually pretty cool.”

“I know, right?”

“Like, do you have like Robocop vision? And what happens if the subtitle color matches the background of whatever you’re looking at? ‘Cause you know how like on my first copy of Godzilla, you couldn’t read the subtitles half the time.”

“Well, I don’t have all the information that Robocop gets, but it’s that kind of text--”  

“Oh my god, we do _not_ have time for this,” Cordelia broke in suddenly. “Great, Andrew can sorta hear us. Moving on. We have to stop Twilight.”

Properly chastised, both Andrew and Jonathan ducked their heads.

“You’re quite correct,” Giles said, clearing away the dirt that had smudged on his glasses during the excitement. “We need a plan as to _how_ to stop him and Simone.”

“Lucky for you guys, we’ve already got that,” Cordelia replied.

Buffy turned to her, frowning. “You have a plan?”

“Don’t look so surprised. What do you think we’ve been doing up in heaven? Just watching and cheering for our favorites like it’s American Idol? We’ve been doing research.”

“We’re going to make a portal,” Tara explained. “A spiritual kind -- i-it might not even be visible to people who are alive. It’s designed to force out the entity possessing Angel -- a vacuum, really.”

Giles frowned, looking dubious. “Such a portal will require an incredible amount of power. It is more than any one being could hope to achieve. Even Willow would not be able to overcome Twilight’s hold over Angel.”

“Which is why,” Cordelia broke in, “we have hundreds of souls who know how to open a portal, one of whom has been lent the strength of the Powers That Be themselves.”

Giles blinked, evidently impressed. “Really?”

Cordelia flashed him a smile and lifted her eyebrows.

“But there’s a problem,” Dennis said suddenly.

It was the first time he’d spoken since the pod had touched down, and some of the group looked as if they’d forgotten he was there at all. Xander was standing closest to Dennis, and jumped at the sound of his voice.

“We’re _souls_ ,” Dennis continued. “We’re not supposed to be physical on Earth. We didn’t plan for it, but with the dimensions collapsing, the boundaries between dead and living have blurred. The souls who are in charge of making the portal are exposed, but they need to focus to do their job. I brought up some others to protect them, but they’re not armed for battle either.”

“That, we can help with,” Buffy said curtly. “If this portal idea of yours will really work--”

“--it will--,” insisted Cordelia.

“--we can have Slayers be your guards. Tell us what you need.”

“Well, Jenny -- Ms. Calendar -- is setting up the portal,” Cordelia said. “But we’ll need to get our team in one place, and then draw Twilight out.”

Giles’ head shot up. “Jenny?” he echoed weakly. “She . . . she is here?”

Cordelia looked at him -- took in the wide-eyed expression, the lines on his forehead -- and her gaze softened. The corners of her lips twitched upwards. “Yep. Actually, there’s a few people you all might want to see again.”

“Where?” Giles breathed.

Cordelia reached up and unhooked the talisman that was still hanging heavily around her neck. The moment it came away, she felt her power flood through her system, heightening her senses and her awareness, as if her head had been filled with cotton before.

She sucked in a breath of relief, shoving the talisman into a pocket. “That’s better.”

And then she closed her eyes and reached out with her power, searching for the familiar brush of Jenny’s soul.

“Five o’clock. A couple dozen feet behind us.”

“And the other people?” Xander asked.

“They’re also there.”

Giles had already taken a stumbling step forward in the direction Cordelia indicated. Buffy was barking orders into a walkie talkie, telling the ship overhead to send Slayers to their length of the woods: “We’re rounding up some unarmed friendly forces here, and we’re gonna need bodyguards!”

A screeching, tearing sound ripped through the air, and Cordelia’s head shot up to watch as a rip appeared in the air overhead. She barely had time to process ‘ _oh shit_ ’ before an enormous, slimy creature about the same gray-green color of overboiled cabbage slithered out. It opened its boneless mouth to let out a furious bellow. Mucus flew like spittle.

“Ugh, gross!” Cordelia protested.

“The dimensions are collapsing!” Giles cried. “Other beings can cross into our world now!”

“Yeah, _duh_!” Cordelia shot back. “Where did you think we came from, anyway?!”

Another demon soared out of the tear in space -- this one leathery and spiked, with a half-dozen eyes that glittered with malice.

“I think we should get out of here!” Jonathan yelled.

Willow shot a bolt of lighting toward the beast as they raced away through the trees.

\----

Xander’s breath came in painful pants as he raced through the trees, struggling to keep with his lack of depth perception. It didn’t always work, and he ended up knocking into branches here and there, but never hard enough to really hurt him.

Cordelia rushed on in front of him, Jonathan at her side. Tara ran with Willow. Xander didn’t know the fourth guy, but he figured that guy was probably dead as well.

Cordelia. Jonathan. Tara. Faces of the dead, fighting by their side. It felt . . . Xander didn’t know what he felt. Something was coiled tight inside him.

Another demon came flying at them from the right, and Xander dispatched it with a sharp blow from his axe.

Now wasn’t the time to reflect, he decided. Kill now, think later.

But then, around the next oak tree, Cordelia skidded to a halt. “Jenny,” she said.

And Jenny Calendar, a ghost from almost a decade ago, turned.

“Jenny,” Giles gasped. His voice sounded half-strangled with emotion.

Jenny’s eyes widened, and a smile pulled at her lips. “Rupert.”

Giles stumbled toward her. Jenny covered the last few feet herself with quick steps, and drew him into a tight embrace. “Rupert,” she murmured. Her voice was soft, almost sad. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

Giles said nothing, his hands running restlessly up and down her upper arms. His touch was visibly reverent.

Xander looked away, feeling awkward.

And suddenly, there was another gasp: a soft, vulnerable sound. A tone he rarely heard come from Buffy’s mouth.

“Mommy?”

Xander spun around. Buffy was staring at the gap between two ash trees, where the unmistakable figure of Joyce Summers was visible through the foliage.

“Mom!” Dawn cried, dropping her bow as she rushed forward. “Mom!”

“Dawn, Buffy!”

Joyce scrambled between the ash trees and threw her arms around her daughters; Dawn pressed right up her side, while Buffy buried her face in her mother’s chest.

“Mom,” Buffy gasped, voice shaking. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” Joyce told them, as she ran her fingers through both girls’ hair. “I’ve been watching over you two. I’m so proud of you. Both of you.”

Xander smiled to watch them. But something felt raw and empty in his chest.

To his right, Andrew was murmuring to Jonathan: “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry”; Jonathan hissed back: “Dude, I know.” The two of them offered each other weak, awkward smiles.

On his left, Willow and Tara were still holding each other’s hands, and Willow was staring at Tara with reverent gratitude written in every line of her features.

Giles kissed Jenny.

Joyce rested her cheek against Dawn’s hair.

Xander turned to Cordelia and asked: “Where’s Anya?”

Andrew must have read Xander’s words, because his head shot up and he looked around the trees hopefully. But Jonathan and Cordelia exchanged uneasy looks.

“She, uh. She hasn’t been working with us,” Jonathan said. “Sorry.”

“I did send her an invitation to join the fight,” Cordelia added. “But she never responded.”

Xander felt as if something heavy had dropped to the pit of his stomach. His eyes burned.

“Right,” he choked out. “Right. Yeah. Okay. But she’s . . . she’s--”

“She’s in heaven, if that’s what you’re trying to ask,” Cordelia said. “And I figure that means she’s happy.”

Numbly, Xander nodded.

“I’m sorry Anya’s not here,” Andrew said. His voice was a little too loud, and it caught the attention of Willow and Tara, who both turned to look with at Xander with pained, sympathetic expressions.

Xander looked away. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Jenny, how’s the portal? We need to get this show on the road,” Cordelia said suddenly.

“Ready to go,” Jenny replied. “This whole place is burning with energy. We just need to get Twilight out in the open so our people can focus on something together.”

“I’ll draw Twilight out,” Buffy said, looking up from under her mother’s arm. “He’ll come to me.”

Joyce looked pained. “Buffy--”

“This is still my job, Mom.”

“But there are hundreds of others now.”

“Twilight will still come to me first.”

Joyce still looked troubled, but she didn’t argue further. Her fingers brushed uneasily against a strand of Buffy’s hair.

“Come on, let’s get out there,” Jenny said.

The sounds of demons crashing through the trees behind them were growing ever-closer. Xander twisted around, and he thought he saw a flash of something hideously yellow behind a thicket of leaves.

“I’ve sent out a call to our team,” Cordelia said. “They’ll head out to the field.”

“And I’ve told Rowena to send Slayers to guard them,” Buffy put in.

Cordelia nodded approvingly. “Let’s move, then.”

They pushed back through the trees. Almost immediately, they fell on demons, who were massing in thick, unorganized gangs. But the group wasn’t outnumbered, because as they flew into battle, they were accompanied on either side, by Slayers with swords and axes on the one hand, and souls unafraid of death on the other. Dawn and Andrew took out the airborne threats with well-aimed arrows and bolts; Xander slammed his axe into demon after demon, feeling blood of a dozen different species spray slick against his skin.

Somehow, miraculously, they managed to push through back to the very edge of the line of trees.

“Get the portal team in the center!” Jenny shouted. “Defenders surround them!”

“Where should I be?” said a shaking voice.

Xander glanced for the source -- and blinked.

“Holy crap. Andrew. _Andrew!_ ” Xander snatched Andrew’s arm, wrenching him around to look.

“Huh?” Andrew stumbled at the sharp movement. “Xander, what--” But then, he saw what Xander was staring at, and he broke off with a small sound.

“ _Posey_?”

An expression of numb shock had crossed Buffy’s face. Xander felt his own heart twist. Only Andrew may have known Posey well, but her death had been a symbol to all of them, a symbol of the sacrifices Slayer Organization demanded.

Andrew’s gasp caught Posey’s attention. She swung around to stare at him, a small, nervous smile playing at her lips. “Mr. Wells.”

“Yeah, she’s our secret weapon,” Jonathan said, standing just a pace in front of Andrew. “She’s going right up against the Powers That Be to save the world. It’s really cool, actually.”

Andrew blinked at Jonathan. “You . . . you know Posey?”

“Uh-huh. She recognized me, actually. By the way, what exactly have you been telling your Squad about me?”

Andrew smiled weakly, and didn’t respond.

“Posey, I need you right behind me,” Jenny said. “But don’t do anything until I say so.”

Posey nodded quickly.

“I’m sticking by her,” said another, heart-stoppingly familiar voice. “My employers still don’t know we can _totally_ trust her to actually be on our side. It was a quick flip, you know?”

Xander spun around. That voice was from another era, worlds away, and yet, he could never forget the sound. _Jesse_.

Jesse lurked by the trees, and now he stepped out into the shadows of the early evening. His eyes glowed yellow. Ridges twisted his features into a face that was horribly unfamiliar.

Xander stumbled backwards, feeling something like bile rise in his throat.

Jesse saw the movement. A cruel smile stretched across his lips. “Hey, Xan. Long time, no see.”

Willow reunited with Tara. Dawn and Buffy saw their mother again. Giles was with Jenny. Andrew got to see Jonathan _and_ Posey. And all Xander got was this warped, taunting version of Jesse. He clenched his jaw, but what he really wanted to do was scream at the universe for its injustice.

“Chill. We’re on the same side; not gonna kill you.” Jesse leered at him.

“Shut up, Jesse,” Cordelia snapped.

Jesse shot her a long-suffering look.

“You can help as one of Posey’s guards,” Jenny said. But, warningly, she added. “There will be other guards.”

Jesse’s lip curled, but he said nothing.

Xander couldn’t bear to look at him a second longer. He spun away. “Just point me at something kill,” he hissed at Buffy.

\----

The group the dude-witch had been part of was getting away. Of course they were. The stupid gold dome spell had swept through the area, and the moment the soldiers’ guns stopped working, they dropped their weapons and fled like the cowards they were. Warren, of course, would have loved to get off the battlefield himself -- which wasn’t a question of bravery, but intelligence, because he was too damn sick to have any business fighting out here.

But his movements were too sluggish, and he’d barely had time to drag himself a half-dozen feet, when enormous, otherworldly demons descended on them. All Warren could do was cower behind Amy’s shield spell, almost too lethargic to even open his eyes. He was getting weaker by the moment, and he was _scared_.

“Hey, do you get the feeling we kind of hate Twilight right now?” Amy yelled out, as she shot a spell at a screeching, batlike creature.

“Yeah,” Warren murmured wearily.

“I say we jump sides,” Amy spat. “This is _not_ what we were promised.”

“Sure. But before you do that, can you get me _out_ of this fucking battle already?”

Amy just glanced at him. Something in her expression was terrifyingly cold.

\----

Dennis had never trained to fight. He hadn’t even been aware that the supernatural existed until he ended up as a ghost, and he’d never done anything to oppose the forces of evil except slam a few doors and rattle a couple windows. And then, it wasn’t like he’d had a body. The knife in his hand, tossed to him by a Slayer, felt foreign in his grip.

But Cordelia needed him to fight. And so he would fight.

Dennis shoved Jonathan behind him, past the ranks of anchors and Slayers, into the fortified center of the crowd with the other members of the portal team. Andrew stepped up next to Dennis, his crossbow loaded, and his jaw set in the determination to help protect Jonathan. Dennis nodded at him, accepting his camaraderie.

And then ducked as a demon swung at him with scaly fists.

Dennis’ heart pounded in his chest; almost blindly, he rushed forward and slammed his shoulder into demon’s armored chest. Pain exploded from the point of the contact, and he yelled.

A dragon wheeled overhead, the girl who’d arrived with Andrew again on its back. She strung an arrow and loosed it -- the arrow pierced the demon’s back. At the same moment, Andrew’s bolt embedded itself in the demon’s throat. The beast crumpled to the ground. Just in time for another demon to take its place.

Dennis hated this fighting thing. But Cordelia needed him to fight. And so he would fight.

At the front of the crowd, Buffy stepped forward. Dennis heard her yell out, her voice magically magnified: “Twilight! You wanted to talk to me! Well, I’m here now, so come talk!”

A long minute passed, punctuated only with the fever of the battle raging across the hilltop.

Finally, a dark, masked figure stepped out of the forest. Dennis didn’t see Twilight at first; he was on his back in the earth, dodging the blows of some spiny creature more than five times his size. With a yell, Andrew launched himself onto the creature’s back, and used his own fist to slam a bolt into the spine at the base of the neck. Dennis scrambled out from under the collapsing body -- just in time to see Twilight come to a halt in front of Buffy.

Buffy stared at Twilight unblinkingly. “Lovely evening.” Her voice was like acid.

If Dennis had been any further away, he would not have been able to hear Twilight’s reply. As it was, he could barely make out Twilight’s words:

“Your time has passed, Summers. You had your chance.”

“I’m not looking for a ‘chance’.”

Dennis launched himself at another demon. His knife slammed uselessly against the armored hide, sending powerful vibrations up his arm. Without even thinking, he pulled back his other fist a swung a punch. He tucked his thumb under his fingers. When the impact came, there was a _crack._ Dennis cried out.

“Then what are you looking for? To ‘save the world’? There’s nothing you can do.”

“Not me,” Buffy replied calmly. “But Jenny?”

Before Twilight could even ask who ‘Jenny’ was, Dennis heard Jenny shout: “On my mark! One, two . . . _mark_!”

Dennis could _feel_ the rush of power as two hundred souls simultaneously focused their energy on Twilight. It was a tide, making him almost dizzy with the force of it. A glow suffused Twilight as the portal within him split wide, and the glow brightened with each passing second, until it was blinding.

Twilight stiffened, but then cast a cold gaze over the crowd. “You think you could build a portal strong enough to stop me?”

“Posey!” Jenny yelled. “Now!”

The rush of power this time was enough to send Dennis to his knees. Around the crowd, he could see other souls crumpling as well, but the living seemed immune.

This time, Twilight let out a lionesque roar. Cordelia leapt out of the crowd and wrapped her arms tight around his middle.

“Get out of Angel, you bastard,” she hissed.

Green flashed out from Twilight’s body -- a desperate bid for freedom. Tongues of color cut like whips to a distance of fifteen feet; Buffy dropped fast to the ground, but at least a dozen Slayers were caught by the blaze and collapsed.

Cries of shock and fear rose from those closest to the fallen. The living that had been touched by the flash of green stared up at the sky with sightless eyes. There was no need to check for a pulse.

Cordelia grit her teeth and tightened her hold.

“Get back!” Buffy barked out. At the center of a field of destruction, her expression had turned to something cold and frightening. Her allies hastened to obey, scrambling out of range of Twilight’s last throes.

“Hold it just a second longer, Posey!” Jenny cried.

Dennis swung his head to see sweat shining on Posey’s brow. She was clenching her jaw with the effort of directing the power, and he could see ominous lines of black streaking up her arms.

Another, inhuman roar tore itself from Twilight’s throat. But this time, the sound cracked, as if caught on a scratched record. The whips of green now seemed paler, and shorter, and slower.

Finally, his body went limp. A wind rushed through across the hilltop, like the last bite of a departing winter.

“That’s it! Posey, close the portal!”

Cheers erupted throughout the crowd. Slayers and souls alike hugged and high-fived each other, even as they spun back to continue battling the demons.  

But Twilight -- no, _Angel_ \-- was still glowing with the brilliant power of the portal. Cordelia clutched onto him, but her skin was fading. The color drained, and Dennis realized with a start he could see the trees behind her, through her body.

Cordelia and Angel were both being sucked in.

“I can’t close it!” Posey cried. “I’m trying! I-it’s too powerful!”

She looked panicked.

“Relax, Posey!” Jenny yelled.

Willow dove down from the skies, where she’d been casting shielding spells over the heads of the crowd of souls. “Posey, you can control this,” she said urgently. “Don’t let it control you. Breathe.”

But it wasn’t going to be enough. Dennis could see that. By the time Willow managed to coax Posey into closing the portal, it would be too late. Angel and Cordelia would have been sucked in, trapped in a demon dimension -- forever.

“Jonathan!” Dennis yelled. “Open a portal to heaven, next to Cordelia!”

Jonathan spun around. “What?”

“Just do it!”

Jonathan nodded once, and his hand flew out in front of him.

Dennis rushed forward, leaping over demons and weaving between Slayers to reach Angel and Cordelia. He could feel the pull of the portal as he grew close -- and as his good hand slid across Cordelia’s waist, he gasped to feel his head spin under the full force of the suction.

But he had the momentum. His grip tightened on Cordelia’s waist, and he dove headfirst into the portal Jonathan had opened, dragging both Cordelia and Angel with him.

Angel’s body fell to the earth. The glow vanished. 


	22. Chapter 22

Angel came into consciousness slowly. It was as if he were coming out of the deepest sleep of his existence; he fought through layers of nothingness, aware of the need to wake before he was even aware that he was unconscious.

There were gentle fingers on his forehead, in his hair. Someone was speaking. The voice was sharp, and somehow, that was the most comforting thing of all.

“Come on, wake up already, you big lump!”

Angel cracked his eyes open. It took a moment for his vision to clear.

He was lying draped out across Cordelia’s lap, in the middle of a wide field. His head rested against her arm; his legs sprawled out into the grass. He was also totally naked.

Out of the corner of his gaze, he noticed another man standing behind Cordelia. The man looked simultaneously dazed and pleased, a small smile pulling at his lips as he gazed unashamedly down at Angel. Angel had never seen him before, and yet he was struck with the strangest feeling that he knew him.

Angel had the wherewithal to feel embarrassed under the man’s gaze, but he was finding it strangely hard to move to cover himself. He glanced away.

As Angel turned his head, Cordelia let out a breath.

“Get up; you’re heavy,” she snapped. “And get some clothes on.”

“Oh. Um.” Angel clambered slowly to his feet. His limbs felt sluggish, as if they had stiffened over months of disuse. He looked around himself. The field stretched miles in every direction, broken only by the smudge of mountains or the glitter of water. There was no sign of civilization anywhere. “Um. Where do I get clothes?”

“You’re in heaven,” said the strange man mildly. “Just think of what you want to be wearing. Heaven can do a lot; it already healed my broken thumb.” He peered bemusedly at his hand.

“In heaven? But . . . how?”

“I didn’t have much time to think,” replied the man. “I’m just very glad it worked.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Clothes first, talk after,” Cordelia interrupted. “Come on, get presentable already!”

Angel blinked, but followed her directive. He closed his eyes to think, and a moment later, he was dressed in a long-sleeved black shirt and dark denim, with black shoes sinking into the soft ground.

Cordelia snorted. “Predictable.”

“It is very appropriate for him,” commented the other man.

Angel turned to frown at him now, his brow furrowing. “Do I know you?”

“Oh. I’m Dennis Pearson -- the ghost who was haunting Cordelia’s apartment? Nice to speak to you, finally.” Dennis smiled and put out a hand.

Almost dumbstruck, Angel took it. “Dennis?” he said weakly. He paused, as a thought struck him. “I . . . I’m sorry. We never told you about what happened to Cordy.”

“Yes, that was kind of rude,” Dennis admitted.

“But not as rude as letting a weird almost-realm possess you and almost cause the end of the world,” Cordelia broke in.

Angel stared. “What?”

“ _Twilight_ ,” she spat. “It tried to destroy the world using your body! What were you _thinking_ letting it possess you?”

“It -- what?” Angel went pale. “I . . . that’s not what it told me! It told me that the Twilight prophecy was the only way to _save_ the world! After Buffy activated all the Potentials, the balance of the universe was all off. I thought the universe was going to react by plunging the entire world into hell, unless I let Twilight oppose Buffy.”

“And you just _believed_ it?” Cordelia said incredulously.

“Well, L.A got stuck in hell that one time! I mean, that was reset, but Twilight’s warning made sense.”

“Excuse me, I helped you through the whole L.A. thing. And I still say letting a mysterious super-powerful being possess you _never_ makes sense! Jeez, did you learn nothing from Jasmine? And especially listening to some creature with a name as melodramatic and totally doom-saying as ‘Twilight’? How on earth have you survived several centuries anyway?”

Angel winced. “So, what actually did happen?”

Cordelia huffed, and tossed her hair over one shoulder. “Well, Twilight was right about the Potentials changing the balance. But all that did was release Twilight to talk to you -- it was just one step in a series of steps that was supposed to mean the end of our universe so another one could be born. A process that _you_ made possible.”

“Sorry?” Angel tried.

Cordelia shot him a glare. “Lucky for us, Jonathan has a probably-unhealthy obsession with watching out for his own murderer, and the Powers That Be were really sloppy at hiding their interference with his scrying. We dug a little deeper and figured out that you’d gotten yourself in a whole pile of crap that the Powers didn’t want us to know about. Pulled a team together, and built a portal, two hundred souls and an agent of the Powers strong, to suck Twilight out of you. Ended up a little too strong, and the portal almost got me and your soul, too. Dennis’ quick thinking dragged us up to heaven in the nick of time.”

Dennis smiled, clearly pleased with himself.

But Angel was still bewildered. “Wait. Who’s Jonathan? The Powers That Be were interfering? What team?”

“Jonathan’s one of Cordelia’s old high school classmates,” Dennis said helpfully. “He’s in heaven, too. The Powers want the new realm to come into existence, so they didn’t want us to save ours. And, ah, there’s a lot of people on the team. Dead souls from both heaven and hell -- oh, Wesley was helping.”

Angel blinked slowly. “So, you went up against the Powers That Be, stopped Twilight, and now I’m in heaven?”

And this time, it was Cordelia who went pale. “Oh, _shit_.”

Angel and Dennis both looked at her.

“We’re in heaven, don’t you see? Angel is in heaven. Vampires don’t come to heaven. This is just his human soul. Angelus is still down there.”

\----

“Whoa, whoa, hang on! Don’t stake him quite yet!” Doyle threw himself out in front of Angelus’ smirking face, shoving back one of a half dozen Slayers who had sprung forward. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. “Cordy will figure it out! Give her a chance!”

“That’s Angelus,” Jenny said coldly. “Do you know what he’s capable of?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course! But we just handled Twilight. I think we can handle a few minutes of Angelus. But you stake him now, there’s no comin’ back from that.”

Angelus leered, turning his head in slow, predatory movements. He’d torn off the Twilight mask to display his ridged, vampire face. He was visibly amused by the attention, but also seemed to know better than to open his mouth when surrounded by dozens of full-powered Slayers. There was a calculating gleam in his eyes; Doyle was his only hope out, and he knew it. Doyle swallowed hard.

Jonathan spoke up next: “I trust Cordelia. She’ll fix it. She fixed all of this, didn’t she?”

“It is foolish to underestimate Angelus,” Giles said. His grip was white-knuckled on Jenny’s shoulder.

“And I’m not underestimatin’ him,” Doyle insisted. “But we got a ton of Slayers right here. He doesn’t stand a chance.”

Buffy crossed her arms. “Five minutes,” she declared. “Get him to the sidelines, tie him down and put a guard of ten on him. If Cordelia’s not back in five minutes, we kill him.”

Her voice was hollow. As Angelus’ smirk widened, Doyle wondered if he was making a huge mistake.

\----

“Oh my god. I’m so sorry. This was all my fault.” Dennis paced desperately through the grass, his hands running nervously through his hair. “I just -- I wanted to pull you as far away from that hell dimension as I could think of. And now we’re in heaven, and Angelus is loose down there, but we’re in the Powers’ dimension, and they have control. This is all my fault. I just didn’t _think_.”

“Oh, shut up!” Cordelia snapped.

Her hand passed through the air, trying again to wrench open a portal. Nothing happened.

“Dammit,” she hissed. “The Powers must be working overtime to keep us up here, with the dimension walls crumbling already. I don’t get why they’re trying so hard. We already stopped Twilight!”

“It’s my fault,” Dennis bemoaned again.

“I said, _shut up_!”

Dennis broke off, and stared at her.

“You thought fast, Dennis. You saved mine and Angel’s asses, and I’m grateful for that. We’re in heaven, so what? We got out once before. We can do it again, and then we’ll get Angel’s soul back where it belongs.”

On cue, there was a rustle behind them.

As one, the three turned.

“ _Anya_?” Cordelia gasped.

Anya stood between the two Oracles of the Powers, smiling self-assuredly. Behind them, a doorway to another corner of heaven winked out of sight. The Oracles stood stiffly, their golden hands tied tightly behind their backs and identical disgruntled expressions fixed on both their faces. The woman’s headdress was missing, and her dark curls hung in a mess around her ears.

No. The headdress wasn’t missing. It was in Anya’s hands.

“Alright, get me out of here, and I’ll let you go,” Anya said sharply, prodding the Oracles with the headdress. “Maybe.”

“Anya, what’s going on?” Cordelia said bewilderedly.

Anya glanced up, as if recognizing her for the first time. “Oh, hey. Look, I changed my mind about the whole not putting my neck on the line thing. I mean, I’ve totally already done way more than my share, but when the Powers have the _nerve_ to cut off my heaven . . . I mean, come on.” Anya shrugged. “Tricked these guys into coming into my heaven, grabbed their source of power, and made them promise to get me out of here. Apparently, the last door out of heaven was opened here.”

“You . . . kidnapped the Oracles, and strong-armed them into busting you out of heaven?” Cordelia’s eyebrows lifted.

“Yeah,” Anya replied. “Pretty much.”

“You missed the fight,” Dennis said apologetically. “But if you could get us back down to Earth--”

“‘Missed the fight’?” Anya echoed. “Not according to these guys.” She prodded the female Oracle with her own headdress, and the Oracle scowled.

“We got Twilight stuck in Ersetu. There’s no coming back from there,” Cordelia pointed out.

“The new realm will not be born of Twilight,” said the male Oracle, voice smug. “The power is in the other Slayer, the replacement of Buffy Summers. You failed to stop what will be.”

Cordelia and Dennis exchanged horrified looks.

“‘Other Slayer’?” Dennis echoed. “We didn’t plan for that.”

“We need to get back down to Earth, _now_ ,” Cordelia said.

Anya watched them, playing with the the Oracle’s headdress between her fingers. “See? You guys really do need me.”

\----

Angelus did not intend to go quietly to his execution, whether by reensoulment or by stake.

He did not fight as ten Slayers tied his wrists and dragged him to his feet, but he was watching. He watched the surging battle and the chaos of the bloodlusting demons; he watched the evening shadows shift in the trees; he watched the limp of one of his captors.

At his right, Buffy sliced through a demon’s . . . appendage. As much as the Slayers were chopping down hordes of hellish forces, there seemed to only be more and more for them to fight. Angelus might have thought their losing battle amusing, if he were not so concerned with getting off the battlefield before the congestion became a serious hindrance for his escape.

“Are these things multiplying?” Xander yelled, ducking under a claw.

“The dimensions are still collapsing! I can feel the doors opening wider!”

Angelus started; he recognized that voice. Jenny Calendar. He twisted to look, furious. How had she returned from the dead? He’d been thorough.

But no -- he could smell the death on her. Not the same kind of death that made up a vampire’s scent; the death of a human soul, separated from its body. Yet, somehow, she _had_ a body.

“But I thought we stopped Twilight!” Xander shouted.

“We did not stop Simone,” replied Giles, expression grim. “The prophecy must be continuing to fulfill itself through her.”

“Oh, great!” snapped Xander. “So how do we stop her?”

“There wasn’t another plan!” cried a small, dark-haired boy. He, too, smelled like death. “That was it!”  

“Then we’ll build from square one,” Buffy replied grimly, as her scythe slammed into a demon’s side, and the creature reared back, roaring.

Another boy that Angelus vaguely recognized from his time with a soul suddenly cried out. A winged demon the size of an elephant had just dove down from the sky in front of him, effectively cutting him off from his allies.

“Andrew!” Xander called back. “Shit. Jonathan, can you get to him?”

The dark-haired boy bobbed around demons, trying to catch sight of his friend. “I think so!” He braced himself to throw himself into the thick of the fighting.

“Wait -- you need a weapon!”

Someone passed him a knife, and the boy nodded once, before rushing into the fray.

Attention was turning away from Angelus. He fixed his gaze on the limp of the captor right in front of him.

Then he felt a rush of power sweep through him -- not his own, but a tide of another being punching their way into the battle. Angelus’ nostrils flared as two familiar scents filtered into his awareness. Cordelia. And -- well, that was interesting: himself.

Angelus twisted around. His soul had returned, the _humanity_ disgustingly clear on his own face; whatever had given Jenny and the dark-haired boy a physical presence had allowed his soul to take on a form as well.

Angelus had been waiting for an opening, but he couldn’t wait a second longer, now that his soul was back on the field.

He rushed toward the limping girl. She cried out, but his teeth were already at her neck, tearing at the skin. He tasted the copper tang of her blood. It rushed through him, power pulsing through his being. The Slayer swung up with her knife; Angelus twisted back so the blade sliced through his bonds. He was free.

But he hadn’t even had time to breathe before something else slammed into him, making him stagger. Buffy.

“You went too easily,” she snarled. “Knew you were going to make a run for it.”

“See if you can try to stop me,” Angelus leered.

“Mind if I give it a shot?”

A hand on his shoulder spun Angelus around. His eyes widened as he took in the fury on his soul’s expression, just before Angel pulled back a fist and slammed a punch right in the center of Angelus’ face.

\----

Andrew’s head was spinning. He was supposed to be only on the edge of the battle, his back protected by allies. But out here, there were enemies on all sides, and he couldn’t hear where they were. His vision only had a limited range; Andrew kept swiveling his head, trying to keep track of every one of the dozens of demons around him, but he couldn’t move fast enough. His breath was harsh, ragged. He felt dizzy.

Something brushed up behind him. With a wild yell, Andrew spun on the spot, and cocked his crossbow.

<<hey don’t shoot!>> Jonathan cried, throwing up his hands. <<i’m on your side!>>

“Jonathan! I almost shot you!”

<<good thing you didn’t,>> Jonathan commented. <<i mean can’t do too much damage but still.>>

“Sorr--”

<<andrew duck!>>

Both of them dropped fast as a long, spiked tail swept through the air. Andrew spun around and shot a bolt directly into the head of the creature. As it reared back, Andrew dropped to one a knee to hastily crank the windlass on his crossbow, readying the next bolt. Jonathan stood over him, knife clenched in a white-knuckled grip.

<<how long does that thing take to load?>>

“Well, it’s not a bow!” Andrew replied. “But I’m also running out of bolts. Melanie’s in charge of resupply, but there’s no way she can get in here.”

<<you need to get out of here.>>

“Uh-huh, but I don’t know how. A crossbow isn’t exactly made for this kind of combat.” Another creature lunged at him, and Andrew leapt back, his feet skidding in the dirt. He didn’t shoot; it would take another few precious seconds to load another of his dwindling bolts.

Jonathan twisted around, his gaze flitting around their surroundings. As Andrew danced around the demon still advancing on him, he couldn’t keep his eyes on Jonathan.

<<\--thing cool?>> the glasses translated, when Andrew finally glanced at him again.

“What?”

<<do you want to do something cool?>> Jonathan repeated.

“What are thinking of?”

<<let’s get you on a dragon.>>

“How?” Andrew demanded. “And what about you? I’m not leaving you behind!”

<<my weapon doesn’t have a reload time and i can portal out of here if i get stuck. stop whining. i’m not letting you get killed.>> And before Andrew could protest further, Jonathan looked up to the sky and yelled: <<dawn! catch!>>

Up above the crowd, Andrew saw the dark figure of Drogon twist around and dive toward the earth.

<<come on andrew!>> Jonathan had shoved his knife in his pocket, and now had his hands held out in front of him, fingers twined together to create a platform with his palms. <<fastball special. like colossus and wolverine.>>

Andrew grinned. “That is actually really cool.”

<<i know. but stop talking about it and just do it!>>

Andrew complied. He took two running steps forward, then jumped up, planting one foot on the space Jonathan created with his hands. Jonathan staggered back under the sudden weight, but managed to hold his footing long enough for Andrew to launch himself into the air.

Drogon’s claws wrapped around Andrew’s torso. Andrew gasped as he watched the earth fall away, Drogon’s huge wings carrying them high above the ground. He squeezed his eyes shut until he felt Dawn’s grip on his arm, helping him climb properly on to the dragon’s back.

When he was perched safely behind Dawn, he glanced down, to watch as Jonathan lashed out at a demon and raced back toward the safety of Buffy and her allies.

\----

As Angelus’ unconscious body fell to the ground, Angel shook out his wrist. He peered consideringly at his hand. “That was really cathartic.”

“But not a permanent solution,” Giles commented. He shot a spell at a creature bearing down on Tara. “If you have a physical body, reensoulment will not occur until the dimension walls stabilize. After we take down Simone.”

“Well, he should be easier to handle, now that he’s unconscious.”

“If he’s _really_ unconscious,” Buffy pointed out. She kicked Angelus hard. He didn’t move. “Okay, he seems unconscious. We’ll have to keep him somewhere until we can deal with this.”

“Hey,” said Anya, from behind Angel. “Can I get a little more hubbub for my whole ‘back from the dead, saved your asses’ thing?”

In the rush of the battle, it was the first time the rest of the group noticed whom had returned with Angel, Cordelia, and Dennis. Anya stood a pace behind Angel, tossing the Oracle’s headdress up and down in one palm. The Oracles hadn’t accompanied them, but that was fine. They’d done their job and gotten the team out of heaven.

Xander’s head whipped around at the sound of her voice, his good eye suddenly wide and vulnerable.

“Anya?” he breathed.

Anya glanced to him. “Hey,” she said simply.

Xander slashed at the demon in front of him, and ducked under its thrashing limb to rush toward Anya.

“Anya,” he said again, and a grin was spreading across his face from ear to ear. His skin and clothes were still streaked with dirt and demon blood, but pure, undiluted elation shone from his features. “Of course, you just had to be late, didn’t you? You had to make an entrance.”

Anya snorted. “I showed up exactly when you guys needed me.”

Xander looked as if he wanted to say something more. But instead, he dropped his axe. It fell to earth, and he threw his arms around Anya, tucking his face into her shoulder.

Anya started under the gesture, but she didn’t pull away.

“It is good to see you again,” Giles told Anya.

“Hear, hear,” Xander murmured hoarsely. “Though Giles continues to be the master of understatement.”

Xander finally pulled back, and the emotion on his face was so raw, so unguarded, that to look at him made something twist in Angel’s chest. He stepped aside, to give Xander and Anya whatever small semblance of privacy they could get on a battlefield.

Besides, while Xander and Anya reunited, there were other matters to attend to.

“So where are we going to put . . . him?” Angel murmured to Buffy, prodding Angelus with a toe.

“Spike’s ship is the only thing flying, since its weird alien tech isn’t affected by Willow’s anti-combustion spell,” Buffy replied. “He could probably keep an eye on Angelus while we deal with these demons.”

“You’re going to leave my body with _Spike_?”

Buffy shot him a long-suffering look. “He knows better than to stake you without good reason. So drop your rivalry already.”

“It’s probably a good idea to leave him with someone who hates Angelus,” Cordelia put in.

Angel scowled, but did not argue as Buffy pulled out her walkie-talkie and shot out a message to Spike.

\----

Andrew _really_ wished he’d taken his dramamine.  Somehow, riding on a dragon was not nearly as fun as it looked for Bastian in Neverending Story -- instead of soaring smoothly through the sky like Falkor, Drogon twisted and shot up and down like a jerky, indecisive rollercoaster. Drogon made a sudden drop, and Andrew had to swallow hard at the rolling in his gut. But he fought through the nausea to train his gaze on the fighting below.

Four bolts left in his quiver. One loaded on his crossbow. He spotted CJ on the ground, struggling to hold back three demons at once. She was failing; her form was sloppy, her movements slow.

Andrew dispatched one of the demons with a bolt to its head. CJ glanced up, and Andrew saw her flash him an exhausted smile. And then, thankfully, before he had to use another bolt, Katie arrived at CJ’s side, providing her much-needed backup.

Three bolts in his quiver. One loaded on his crossbow. Andrew twisted around, trying to spot who was in the most danger.

“How much longer to the supplies?” Andrew called to Dawn, glancing at her.

<<two minutes!>>

A lot of people could be hurt in two minutes. A lot more than the four bolts he had could save. Andrew felt sick, and it wasn’t just the flying.

His gaze fell on a pair of figures at the edge of the wood. One of the figures was unmistakably familiar: there was only one person on the battlefield who was missing their entire dermis. Andrew’s heart dropped to his belly.

Warren was trapped against a rock, a hulking demon towering over him. He hunched over on the ground, barely moving, while Amy shot spell after spell at the demon. Amy was out of the demon’s immediate range, but her offensive was useless. Each spell she cast only enraged the demon more. That wasn’t particularly surprising; Andrew recognized the species as one that was immune to human magic. Amy could do nothing to drive the demon back, and Warren was obviously in no shape to help. If no one stepped in to protect him, Warren would die.

Andrew didn’t even think. He swung his crossbow around and took aim. But just before he pulled the trigger, his brain caught up with him.

 _He was saving Warren’s life_.

Andrew froze, feeling his pulse throb in his ears.

Save Warren, or let him die? He knew what Buffy would want him to do. What Willow would want him to do. Warren was on the dark side. Warren had tried to turn Andrew to Twilight’s side; he’d conspired to kill Slayers. He _had_ killed Katrina, _had_ killed Tara.

But then again, Andrew had killed people, too.

But then again, Andrew wouldn’t want someone to waste one of four bolts on saving his life, either.

On all counts, it made most sense to let Warren die. Warren was a bad guy, and there were dozens of good guys on the field who needed protecting. A bolt used to save Warren was one less bolt he could use to save CJ, or Mina, or Sophie. Andrew shouldn’t save his life.

Andrew pulled the trigger. As the bolt flew from his crossbow, he squeezed his eyes shut.

He must have let out a sound, because when he opened his eyes again, Dawn was watching him concernedly. <<andrew? you okay?>>

Andrew glanced down. The demon had collapsed, and Amy was dragging Warren back toward the trees by his arm. Neither of them had looked up.

“I . . . I saved Warren’s life,” he murmured. “I had only four bolts, and I used one to save Warren’s life. Even though he’s the enemy.”

He turned wide eyes on Dawn, wordlessly begging her to say something.

A shadow passed over Dawn’s face. Finally, she said: <<then we didn’t lose you.>>

Andrew wasn’t sure what she meant.

\----

Andrew’s bolt, however, had only taken out the threat he could see.

Warren sagged limply against the tree Amy tossed him against. Every cell in his body felt as if it were crying out for mercy, but there was nothing Warren could do to alleviate the pain or exhaustion that permeated his body.

Amy threw up a shield spell, and suddenly the nausea that had been twisting in Warren’s gut surged. He lurched forward and heaved.

Amy ignored him. She cast another defensive spell, an illusion this time. Warren wretched again.

And finally, it clicked.

“ _You_ ,” he gasped, hoarse and weak. “You’re doing this.”

Amy turned back to him. “What are you talking about?” she snapped.

“The spell you’re using on me. It didn’t go wrong. You’re doing this on purpose.”

Part of him wanted her to deny it, for her to take on that expression that said she clearly thought he was the stupidest thing on the planet. He hated that expression, but right now, he almost prayed for it to cross her face.

But instead, a slow, cruel smile spread across her lips. “Finally caught on, have you?”

“Why?” Warren croaked. “I thought--”

“Thought I was your girlfriend? Thought I _loved you_? Of course you did. You’re such a narcissist; all I had to do was say I was in love with you, and you ate it up with a spoon. As if I’d ever be attracted to you. You -- a misogynistic, domineering _pig_.”

Amy stalked over to him and crouched down, still leering. Warren fought the urge to heave again.

“No, the only thing you were good for was the fact you were utterly dependent on me. You needed my magic, so you would stay by my side constantly. And I could drain your life force to fuel my spells. It’s what they call a symbiotic relationship: I keep you alive, and you’re my walking battery.”

“But,” Warren choked out. “I’m dying.”

He knew it was true. He hadn’t dared think the words to himself, but death was heavy in his limbs, sour on his breath.

Amy merely looked at him. “Even batteries expire.”

Warren wanted to surge up, to wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze. He wanted to choke the breath out of her, the very way she was dragging his breath from his body by magic. But he couldn’t move. He could barely lift his hand, let alone overpower her. All he could do was let out a miserable groan.

And so, unharmed, Amy straightened up, brushed off the knees of her jeans, and strode back to tend to the spells fueled by Warren’s very life.

\----

Spike’s ship touched down in the field to collect Angelus’ body. Angel was not looking forward to facing Spike’s leering about the whole Twilight mess he’d gotten to himself into, but thankfully, the battle was rushing too quickly for Spike to step out himself. A guard of Slayers escorted Angelus into the belly of the ship, and then the craft pushed off into the sky again.

Angelus was out of the way, but there was no time to relax.

“First thing we need to do is find Simone!” cried Xander, as he pushed Anya behind him, his axe coming up to drive back the bristling creature that flew at them. “Where the hell is she?!”

“Hiding!” Buffy shouted back. She jumped in next to Xander, swinging out her scythe beside his axe.

“How do you know?”

“Andrew told me something about her. She’s a bully,” Buffy replied. “I think he’s right. Bullies don’t make a move unless they have total control. And when Willow and Tara did the anti-firearm spell, we took away her favorite weapons.”

“So she’s biding her time until she can open the new universe, where she has uncontested rule. Or so she thinks,” Willow put in. “But she’s channeling so much power right now that it’ll take barely a second to track her down.”

“Then we can find her. And then how do we stop her?”

“However we can,” Buffy said grimly.

“She has the power of a god,” Giles argued. “You can’t hope to challenge that.”

“We did once,” Buffy retorted. “Remember Glory?”

“Yes, and I recall what it took to defeat her.”

Buffy’s gaze shot to Giles for a heartbeat, and something flickered in her expression. But she only said: “Do we have any more Dragon Spheres lying around?”

“ _Dagon_ Sphere. And that was created specifically to repel Glory. Even if there were another, it would do nothing against Simone.”

Suddenly, Jonathan yelled: “Look out!”

A flaming hellbeast had just leapt out at Cordelia from behind. The creature was the the size of an eighteen-wheeler truck, with flame licking its shoulders and bursting from its gaping maw. Cordelia went down with a cry as a dinner-table sized hand, glowing with embers, pinned her to the ground. There was a horrible sizzling.

Cordelia squirmed under the hand and got her own palms pressed up against the creature’s burning skin. She yelled, focusing a burst of heavenly power at the beast.

Blue light sprang from Cordelia, and the creature roared its displeasure. It snatched its hand back. Cordelia managed to scramble away, beating out the smouldering embers on her shirt.

But she’d barely stung the creature. No injuries -- she’d only enraged it. It roared again, advancing on her.

“ _Damn_! This stupid thing is still holding me back!” Cordelia shoved her hand into her pocket and drew out the talisman she’d been wearing earlier. She chucked it behind her, and threw up her hands in front of her.

A blinding flash of light erupted from her palms this time. At the same moment, there was another roar, and a torrent of water crashed down from the sky. A bolt helpfully buried itself deeply into the beast’s neck, but its impact was nothing compared to the simultaneous attack of an unbridled higher power and a Water Dragon.

The flames all along the beast’s body went out in a plume of smoke. The skin turned gray as the creature crumpled to the ground.

“Cordelia, are you okay?!” Dennis cried.

“‘M fine,” Cordelia muttered, even as she drew a hand across the redenned skin of her shoulder, and winced. “Handled years of visions, didn’t I? It’ll take a lot more than that to take me down.”

The Water Dragon hit the ground with a thump.

“Good timing,” Cordelia commented, as Dawn and Andrew both leapt off the dragon’s back. Both their quivers were bristling with freshly-collected arrows and bolts.

“Happy to help,” Dawn replied.

But Andrew was staring away from Cordelia, at the talisman she’d tossed aside. It had landed a few inches from Buffy’s right foot. The black stone at the center sparkled, like an innocuous mirror of the stars above. The runes along the band were smudged. It looked incredibly small, lying limply in the middle of the raging battlefield. But as Andrew’s eyes landed on it, his eyes widened, and spun back to stare at Cordelia desperately.

“Is that . . . is that the Amulet of Contineo?”

Giles spun around, his mouth falling open wordlessly.

“What?” Cordelia said. “Oh, uh, yeah. Why?”

Andrew rushed forward and snatched it up in reverent hands. “I’ve read about this. It’s one of the most powerful holding objects in the world.”

“You kept it,” Angel murmured.

“Well, yeah. I needed something to hold back my abilities as a higher power so I could go to hell, and it’s not like just anything could do that.”

Andrew stared up at her. “This is powerful enough to hold back a _god_.”

“‘A god’?” Buffy echoed immediately. She grabbed Andrew’s wrist to get his attention. “A specific god, or any god -- like Simone?”

“It won’t work like that,” Giles cut in. “The Amulet of Contineo can only be given with the intent to protect, or care for someone. It won’t work if your goal is to overpower or defeat.”

“What, so it’d work, but only if we _care_ about her?” Xander asked.

“Precisely. It’d have to be the overriding motivation.”

Immediately, Buffy swung her head back to Andrew. Following her movement, Xander glanced to him as well. Finally, Giles followed suit.

“Ah,” Giles said, comprehension flitting across his expression.

“Um,” Andrew said nervously. “Why is everyone looking at me?”

Buffy’s hand covered his, and she wrapped his fingers more tightly around the amulet. “You said you believe in the chance for redemption quests for all your Slayers. You do this, you save Simone’s life. What do you say?”

Andrew’s eyes widened. “Me?” he said weakly.

“One of your Slayers once told me that they respect and trust you for the compassion you held for them,” Giles murmured. “Because you would put their safety above all else, even your own welfare. If that consideration still extends to Simone--”

“It does,” Andrew broke in.

“Then we need you to get this on Simone,” Buffy said. “You’re our best shot right now.”

There was fear in Andrew’s eyes -- fear of the expectations thrust on him; of facing Simone; of the battle around him; of himself. But he swallowed hard, steadying himself. He nodded once.

“I’ll do it.”

\----

_The Amulet of Contineo first came into Cordelia’s possession during her life. On her twenty-first birthday, she collapsed. The visions she’d been enduring for two years had finally taken their toll on her, and she fell into a coma. Desperate investigating through her apartment revealed she was dying, consumed by her own gift._

 

<<andrew move!>>

Dawn shoved Andrew up onto Drogon’s back. His fingers clenched on the amulet so strongly that his knuckles paled and he could feel his nails biting into his palm. His crossbow hung, almost forgotten, from his other hand. Buffy climbed up behind him, her scythe gripped tightly in her fist.

The moment Andrew and Buffy were perched behind Drogon’s wings, Dawn scrambled up in front of them and dug her knees into the dragon’s sides. The wings unfurled, and they bounded up from the earth.

 

_Part demon, Cordelia had said. Like Doyle. Except she had never been born part demon; she didn’t even know what the transformation would bring. The whole situation was dangling on a precipice. Any day could spell disaster._

_Angel couldn’t let that happen. He had to protect Cordelia from the demon inside her, from the very visions that had been slowly killing her._

 

Willow soared beside them. <<the strongest energy is at five o’clock. about a two hundred meters ahead. that has to be simone.>>

<<roger that,>> Dawn replied, and Drogon turned sharply to follow Willow’s direction.

 

_“I think I might have a solution for our little problem,” Lorne told Angel. He stood in the doorway of the Hyperion, arms crossed as moonlight turned his green skin silver. The rest of the lobby was deserted, silent._

_“What?”_

_“I did a bit of digging with some of my contacts, and I turned over some information that might help us protect our Cordy. Mind you, she might not accept it, and if she refuses, there’s nothing we can do.”_

_“Tell me,” Angel demanded. “Give me anything you have.”_

 

Being in the air didn’t mean that they were out of range. A demon below hurled a violet-flaming mass. Drogon had to make a half-barrel roll to avoid it, and Andrew yelled as he clutched onto Dawn. His stomach lurched.

He was _so_ not forgetting his dramamine ever again.

 

_“You want me to wear that?!” Cordelia demanded. Distaste wrinkled her nose as she took in the tacky jewelry Angel dropped into her palm. The dark stone at the center wouldn’t even go with anything in her wardrobe._

_Angel -- weary and dirty, smudged with the remains of long nights in the seedy underbelly of L.A.’s demon crowd -- blinked. “Yes?”_

_“Let me get this right: it binds my visions?”_

_“Well, uh, it’s for the demon blood. But, yeah, we couldn’t bind just the demon and leave you susceptible to the visions--”_

_Cordelia chucked the amulet back into his hands. “Forget it.”_

_“Cordelia, it’s to protect you!”_

_“You’re giving me the same deal Skip gave me! And I picked the visions. What makes you think I’d pick any differently this time? Because you have a good pout?”_

_“Well, it’s just a temporary thing! I’ll look for a way for you to keep your visions without the demon blood, but in the meantime I think you should wear the amulet, just to be safe.”_

_“I said,” Cordelia snapped, “forget it. If you hate the demon blood so much, keep looking. But I’m not giving up the visions for even one day.”_

_She spun on her heel and stalked away._

 

<<down there!>> Willow called, flying a few meters ahead.

She pointed down, where Andrew saw wind ripping through the trees in rushing spirals -- like the start of a tornado, except that it grew from the earth rather than the sky.

Dawn urged Drogon to drop.

The gusts buffeted them, cutting at their skin and making them squint. Drogon’s wings worked a frenzy against the tearing wind, but they were tossed side to side as if they were nothing more than a sheet of paper. A particularly strong gust sent them careening to the right. Andrew cried out as his quiver caught on a high branch and was ripped roughly from his side. He twisted around to stare helplessly after it. But in this wind, his crossbow was useless anyway.

He held on tighter to the amulet and to Dawn, and squeezed his eyes shut against the stinging gusts.

Somehow, they managed to fight the winds to reach the ground. Andrew, Dawn, and Buffy rolled off into the dirt, while Willow touched down in front of them. The trees weren’t the same haven they’d been earlier in the battle; perhaps it was the proximity of Simone making the barriers between worlds even thinner here, but this section of the woods was surging with battle.

Andrew and Dawn’s weapons were useless. Willow threw up an anti-demon barrier around them, while a half-dozen Slayers emerged from the trees, summoned by Buffy to provide backup.

<<simone is just ahead!>> Willow shouted, and Andrew wondered if anyone could even hear her over the wind.

But as they started forward, another familiar Slayer burst from the trees. Willow’s anti-demon barrier did nothing to repel a human, and so Nisha slammed into Andrew’s side and sent him tumbling to the ground.

<<don’t hurt simone! you promised!>>

 

_When Cordelia fell into her second coma, and this time did not seem to be waking up, Angel stayed by her bedside for hours._

_It was too late for the Amulet of Contineo to save her. Perhaps if she had taken it when Angel had first offered it to her . . . but then she wouldn’t have been Cordelia._

_But the amulet was supposed to mean protection. Even if its powers could do nothing, the symbolism was still there. Angel tucked the amulet under Cordelia’s pillow, hoping against hope that somehow, the spirit of the amulet would make some sort of difference for her. He did not put it on her, in deference to her choice._

_When Cordelia died_ , _the Amulet of Contineo was buried with her_ : _a prayer for her soul._

 

<<you swear it won’t hurt her?>> Nisha said, scowling. Her hair whipped across her face as she clambered to her feet so that Andrew could push himself back upright.

“This will save her life,” Andrew said solemnly. “The power will kill her if we don’t stop it.”

Nisha looked back to the center of the whirling winds. Her expression hardened. <<okay. i’ll help.>>

 

_When the Powers That Be challenged Cordelia, she had the resources to oppose them. All she needed was for Lilah Morgan to dig up the Amulet of Contineo, and bring it to hell. From there, a messenger would deliver the amulet -- with no idea of its true power -- to heaven._

_Cordelia Chase would give up paradise, give up power, to change the course of the universe._

 

Close combat meant you had to be completely aware of your surroundings. All it took was a half-second of inattention for an enemy to get under your guard. There were three hundred sixty degrees to monitor; blind spots at the back of your head, blind spots above you, below you. Human vision only covered one hundred twenty of the full three hundred sixty degrees.

For most, that was where hearing came in. A brush of fabric, a crunch of leaves, and they’d spin around. For Andrew, that wasn’t an option. He swiveled his head fast enough to make him dizzy, but there was always a blind spot, a full two hundred and forty degrees from which he had no information.

The Slayers, Dawn, and Willow clustered in around him. They were his bodyguards. They weren’t enough.

Willow’s anti-demon barrier slipped for a heartbeat. The power whipping around them coursed through her system like lightning, making her breath harsh in her own ears, her vision spot in the corners. For just a heartbeat, she dropped the spell.

That was long enough for a demon to rush in from behind. It had a body that looked to be made of moss-coated boulders. The demon dispatched half the Slayers with a single blow of an enormous, granite fist.

Andrew didn’t hear them fall. The demon was in his two hundred and forty degrees of blind spot. Buffy rushed forward, but there were still a half-dozen meters between them, and the demon was barely two feet behind Andrew. Dawn yelled at him to look out, but in the seconds it took for her to register Andrew’s unawareness, to form the words, and for Andrew to read them, it was too late.

The demon’s fist swept out, and caught Andrew hard against the side.

There was a sickening _crack_ at the collision, and Andrew went flying. He slammed hard against a tree, his head bouncing off the trunk.

He slid to the ground, blood trickling from a cut on his temple. He wasn’t moving.

 

_And on Earth, Cordelia passed on the amulet._

 

“Andrew!” Dawn cried.

Willow managed to throw a burst of power at the demon, and it fell back. Before it could muster the wherewithal to throw itself forward again, Willow threw up the barrier. Dawn fell to Andrew’s side.

“He’s unconscious,” she called out. “He’s breathing, but he’s not waking up!”

“He’s the only one who can put the amulet on Simone!” Willow yelled back.

“I know! But he’s down!” Dawn turned wildly to Buffy. “Maybe you should try.”

Buffy frowned. “I’m not Andrew. I’m really pissed with Simone, and that means I kind of really want to take her down.”

“But you do care,” said Willow. “You Called her.”

“It’s a risk. I don’t think we have time for failure.”  

Nisha looked from Buffy, to Dawn, to Willow. “If Simone doesn’t get that amulet, she’ll die, you said?”

“Yeah. That power was never meant for her,” replied Willow.

“Right,” Nisha said.

Before anyone could react, Nisha dropped down and tore the amulet out of Andrew’s limp grip. She raced through the boundary of Willow’s barrier spell and rushed into the heart of the spinning winds.

Nisha heard Willow and Dawn shouting after her, and she thought she saw Buffy scramble up out of the corner of her eye, but her pulse was pounding in her ears, and the wind snatched away their words. Nisha danced around demons, her dagger held as an unspoken threat to anything that got too close.

She pushed through wind so strong that she had to bend almost double. Nisha squinted through the leaf debris ripping through the air. At the eye of the winds, the foliage and bracken and branches were bending from the center, reaching out like a sunburst. And there: Simone lay curled on the forest floor.

A helicopter had been slammed against the trees by a burst of power, and a few feet away Simone’s entire body was rigid and almost glowing with the strength that pushed through her. The sky overhead was tattered, a mosaic of other dimensions bleeding into their own.

“Simone!” Nisha yelled.

Simone didn’t hear her. A spasm wrenched through her body, bending her back unnaturally, and she screamed, although the sound was lost in the wind. It wasn’t hard to believe the power was killing her.

Nisha’s throat tightened, and she felt her breath snag. Simone couldn’t die. She _couldn’t_. Simone had been a firebrand in her mind ever since they met in Italy Squad, almost a year ago. Sure, sometimes, Simone pushed further than Nisha ever could. Simone had taken over a civilian island; she had tried to burn the realm to birth her own.

But still, Nisha couldn’t let her die.

She grit her teeth and struggled, step by step, against the wind. Even the demons weren’t getting this close to the epicenter. It was agonizingly slow movement, and Simone kept spasming, each shudder sending a spike of terror through Nisha’s whole being.

But finally she reached Simone’s side and dropped to her knees.

“Simone,” she said again, although Simone could not hear her.

The power radiated from Simone in more than just wind. Nisha felt as if her skin was burning under an August sun, although the sky had long gone dark. Somehow, she knew if she touched Simone’s skin, it would scald.

Simone’s back arched again. She yelled. Nisha lunged forward and tossed the amulet around her neck.

Simone’s eyes flew open, and she stared at Nisha, panicked and angry and lost, all at the same time. An inhuman growl ripped itself from her throat. Her hands flew up to her neck to snatch away the amulet.

“No! Don’t be an idiot!” Nisha yelled, and she grabbed at Simone’s wrists.

As she’d expected, the power burned her grip -- but it was already fading. As Simone fought against Nisha’s clutches, her movements grew weaker and slower. No longer driven by the power of a god. Not even by the power of a Slayer.

A girl.

Simone slid to the ground. As the last of her power finally drained from her system, she crumpled into the dirt. The ordeal had finally taken its toll on her body, and she passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONE CHAPTER LEFT OMG. Thanks for following thus far!


	23. Chapter 23

As the power drained from Simone’s body, the Earth began to heal. The rifts overhead sealed, the splits in the spacetime shrinking to mere cracks, then vanishing altogether. The demons that had already burst onto Earth were still there, but no more were flooding in. As the night wore on, the tide shifted. Without the constant influx of new, stronger enemies, the Slayers and souls could organize properly to dispatch the threats, one by one by one.

That didn’t mean there weren’t still injuries, that there weren’t still deaths. But the end was in sight.

\----

Dark indigo faded to purple overhead, which became streaks of orange and yellow just over the ridge of mountains. Buffy watched the sky lighten for a moment, letting the buzz of the dying battle fade to the background.

Twilight was gone. She was still standing. It didn’t seem to matter how many crises she faced; she always ended up here. Weary. Victorious, by some definitions. Wondering what the next apocalypse would be.

“Buffy? Are you okay?”

Buffy turned, and managed a small smile. “I’m fine, Mom.”

Joyce was still solid, a testament to how weak the barriers between the dimensions currently were. But she’d begun to fuzz around the edges; at some point soon, the dead would have to return to their own worlds. Buffy tried not to reflect on that.

Despite Buffy’s reassurance, worry lingered in Joyce’s expression. But she just looked to her side, where Leah stood. “This young lady said she wanted to talk to you.”

Leah’s long red hair was dishevelled and looked almost brown with the grit she’d picked up during the fight. She wiped a smudge of mud and blood off her forehead, apparently unaware that the streaks covered every inch of her skin.

“Yeah,” said Leah. “I got a sitrep from Rowena.”

“Go ahead.”

“Surveillance reports we got about two dozen hostiles left. We’ve got teams on all of them, and nothing has gotten into populated areas. The Italian troops that finally showed up are working with us, and the last demons should be down within the hour.”

“Good work,” said Buffy.

“Thanks, ma’am. Also, you should know: we found Warren Mears in the woods. He’s dead.”

Buffy’s gaze didn’t falter as she processed Leah’s words. Warren Mears, dead. Again. There was no victory in the news, but nor was there any grief. “What happened?”

Leah shrugged. “We dunno. There’s no sign of injury. He’s just. Dead. Drained, or something.”

“We don’t know half the demons that showed up tonight, let alone what they can kill by. Let’s just be glad whatever got him didn’t get one of our people as well.”

“Aye,” Leah said grimly.

“Anything else?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Okay. Get back to work, then. Keep me updated.”

Leah snapped Buffy a salute, and turned on her heel.

Buffy watched her go for a moment, not saying anything. Then she glanced up at her mother, who was still standing there, taking in the exchange. Buffy met her eyes as she turned to pace along the perimeter of the battlefield. Her expression was a wordless invitation for company, which Joyce accepted.

Joyce fell in step beside Buffy. She, too, had been stained by the dirt of battle, her blonde curls a mess. There were cuts across one cheek, dark bruising on her shoulder, and she was carrying one wrist a little oddly. But despite the mud and injuries, Joyce looked painfully out of place on the battlefield. It was something deeper than surface scrapes; it was in the way she almost tip-toed over the ground, and in the way her gaze darted from casualty to casualty, looking almost as unsettled by demon bodies as by human ones. Joyce wasn’t a soldier, but she’d fought for her daughters.

“What happens now?” Joyce asked Buffy.

“I don’t know,” Buffy answered honestly.

Spike’s ship had landed on a bare patch of field. Simone’s unconscious body was escorted inside by a team of weary Slayers, Giles hanging a half step behind. The amulet still hung from Simone’s neck. Spike, wary to move out of the safety of ship although the sun wasn’t yet high enough to bathe the field in light, witnessed Simone’s entourage from just within the entry hatch. When they passed by, Spike disappeared after them.

The ship had been converted into a makeshift infirmary. The survivors of the battle tried to squeeze in as many of the injured as they could between the relative safety of the bulkheads, but there was only so much room. Those less injured, with just broken bones or bad scrapes, milled about outside, waiting for healers and doctors to come to them. Simone had only been moved in out of consideration for special surveillance.

Off to the side, Buffy saw Nisha slumped against a sycamore tree, her gaze fixed dazedly on Simone’s entourage. Nisha herself was unrestrained and unguarded. Faith sat by her side, but the line of her body language was more that of a comrade than a guard. Faith was saying something, but it wasn’t clear to Buffy if Nisha was listening at all.

As Buffy approached, she made out Faith’s words. Faith and Nisha were still looking toward the ship, in the opposite direction, and didn’t seem to register her presence.

“They’re not gonna hurt her. I mean, okay, sure, she won’t like being watched and guarded. But hey, a little surveillance never killed anyone.” She paused, and shrugged. “Even if it feels like it sometimes.”

“She won’t ever want to see me again,” Nisha murmured.

“Well, uh, probably not,” Faith admitted. “And, yeah, probably sucks. But I’m gonna be straight with you: you’re better off.”

Nisha’s expression hardened.

“Hey, don’t give me that look. I could spit BS at you, tell you it’s just going to take some time, and then, I dunno, she’ll take you back with open arms, and you’ll show her the light, or some sappy crap like that. But I don’t think you want that.”

Nisha said nothing.

“Look, you made a lot of bad decisions. And letting Simone be the one who makes you feel good about yourself is one of the shittiest ones you could have made. But now she’s going to be going through her own Slayer rehab, and this is your chance to start a new page, or turn over a new leaf . . . or whatever. Pick your idiom. It doesn’t matter; same difference. Anyway, you’d be a damn idiot not to take it.”

“I’m not rejoining Slayer Organization,” Nisha said sharply.

“Cool,” Faith replied. “Nor am I.”

Finally, Nisha looked at her.

Faith shrugged idly. “Slayer Organization is only a tiny piece of the whole Slayer world. There are a thousand other Slayers out there. You could turn your back on the whole damn thing if you wanted to. Or, if you feel like this life will follow you no matter where you go -- which it probably will -- there’s dozens of other groups who’d take you. You don’t have to pick between the Organization and following a bastard like Simone.”

“What are you going to do?” Nisha asked.

“Well, turns out if you give me total choice to do whatever the hell I want with Slayer-ness, after a whole run of bad decisions, I turn into a damn therapist.” She grinned. “Lame, right?”

Nisha snorted, but the stiffness of her posture had begun to relax.

Buffy looped around, giving the two a wide berth so as to not make Faith and Nisha feel intruded upon. Her mother followed after her.

Buffy made her way toward the ship parked on the grass. The wounded waiting outside for treatment looked up as she passed. Buffy couldn’t bear to read the expressions in their eyes. Some looked battle-weary and hardened, as if they’d aged a few decades overnight. Others’ eyes still shone with admiration as they gazed at her, and in some ways, that was even worse.

Buffy looked ahead and pushed inside. She moved through the halls and past room after room, to the control center. It was here that a makeshift cot for Andrew had been set up.

Andrew’s eyes were open, but his gaze was dazed, uncomprehending. He lay limply on a folded medical blanket; his shirt had been cut away, and his chest and head were swathed in bandages, while a Wiccan that Buffy didn’t recognize skimmed glowing hands over his skin.

Jonathan and Dawn sat cross-legged on the floor beside him. Andrew hadn’t even seemed to register their presence. Behind him, Spike leaned against a bulkhead, his features carefully arranged into an expression of boredom. But apparently, he’d decided to be bored at Andrew’s bedside.

The moment Joyce came into sight, Dawn scrambled up and latched herself to her mother’s side. Joyce drew her in with an arm around her shoulders, and brushed softly at the side of Dawn’s head as she glanced down at the makeshift cot.

“That’s Andrew, right?” said Joyce.

Jonathan glanced up. “Yeah.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He’ll be okay once he gets treatment,” said the Wiccan. “Three broken ribs, a moderate concussion, and some internal bleeding which might need treatment. I’ve put a bit of a magical stasis on him for now, which will keep him okay until we can get him to better facilities. But talking to him will be hard; he’s essentially under heavy sedation.”

Joyce’s expression gentled, her gaze keenly taking in Andrew’s condition. Joyce may have been out of place of the battlefield, but this -- bedsides, healing -- that was something she knew how to do.

“Is he warm enough?” she asked the Wiccan.

“I’ll get him a blanket once I’ve finished with the spell.”

“I’ll go find one,” Joyce said quickly. “Buffy, I’ll be right back.”

“Sure,” Buffy replied.

Joyce moved off, Dawn still with her, to sort through the supplies throughout the room for something to cover Andrew with.

Buffy could feel Spike’s eyes on her, but she didn’t meet his gaze. She kept her own eyes fixed on Andrew, as if trying to memorize every movement of the Wiccan’s hands. In reality, she barely registered what she saw. Her skin felt electric under Spike’s gaze, and emotions she wasn’t ready to face rose up from her belly.

Joyce returned a few moment later with a fleece blanket, just as the Wiccan finished the last weavings of the spell.

“I’ll help,” Buffy said, and she reached for a corner of the blanket.

Together, she and her mother worked together to tuck Andrew in as best they could without jostling him too much. Buffy lifted his right shoulder, and Joyce tucked the fabric underneath. Despite their carefulness, Andrew whimpered softly at the movement.

The pain seemed to make him aware that there were people around him; his mouth worked for a moment. Finally, he croaked: “Mommy?”

He wasn’t looking at Joyce. His eyes, still dazed, were fixed directly on Buffy.

Spike made a choking sound. Buffy ignored him, but was grateful when she saw Dawn shoot him a particularly foul glare.

Buffy looked down at Andrew, and didn’t say anything. After all, he wasn’t wearing his glasses. So instead, she merely reached up to adjust the bandage around his head. It was a practical gesture; the bandage had been inexpertly wrapped, and was coming loose at one end. But practical gesture or not, Andrew sighed, and leaned his head into her touch. His eyes slid shut, and his breathing evened out.

“He’ll be fine,” Jonathan said aloud. It sounded as if he were trying to reassure himself as much as anyone else.

Buffy glanced at him. She registered now that his outline had also begun to blur. “You really forgive him, huh?”

“Well, I still care about him, at least. And whatever he did, I don’t want him to _die_.”

“Sure, but not wanting him to die doesn’t mean you also have to wait for him to wake up,” Dawn pointed out.

Jonathan paused. “Yeah, I forgive him,” he said finally. “What he did was still wrong, but I forgive him.”

Buffy nodded, accepting Jonathan’s words.

And this time, when she turned and met Spike’s eyes, she held his gaze. Spike visibly wavered under her attention.

“Mom,” she said, gaze still fixed firmly on Spike. “You mind staying here with Dawn and Andrew? I need to talk to Spike for a bit.”

“Of course,” Joyce replied.

“Thanks.” Buffy turned away, then glanced back over her shoulder at Spike. She gave a small jerk of her head, and Spike obediently followed after her.

They walked in silence for a minute, winding their way through the maze of bulkheads. Almost everywhere they went was crowded by the injured and by Wiccans and bugs playing nurse, but eventually they found a small utility room that was too small to afford any decent resting area for the wounded but large enough to allow Buffy and Spike a private space to talk.

Buffy didn’t close the door. She didn’t need it quite _that_ private.

When Spike looked at her, a false-casual smile flit across his face. “Well, Mommy Dearest, I have to say that he does have your eyes.”

But when Buffy didn’t react, his expression fell.

Without preamble, Buffy said: “You didn’t tell me you were back.”

“Look, Buff, I’m sorry. It was wrong of me, but it was a bit of a confusing time.”

“You don’t get it,” Buffy said. Her tone wasn’t accusatory; it was matter-of-fact. But there was hurt in her eyes.

“I know, I was a coward--”

“No, Spike. Just listen for a second.”

Spike obligingly fell silent.

“I loved you, Spike. And before you try to tell me I didn’t -- I don’t know _how_ I loved you, but I did. And it doesn’t matter how I loved you. The fact is, I lost someone I loved. Do you know how that feels?”

Spike hesitated for a moment, then murmured quietly: “I do.”

“Then, imagine, for a second, what it was like to go through that. And imagine they come back. And they don’t tell you. They don’t think it’s worth telling you; they don’t think it’s worth letting you stop grieving.”  

Spike flinched. “I’m sorry.”

At first, Buffy didn’t say anything. The bustle of the makeshift hospital sounded a world away as the silence between them stretched on.

“I can’t say it’s okay,” Buffy declared finally. “It’s not. But you’re back now, and if you can promise me you’ll stick around this time, I think . . . I want you around.”

Her expression suddenly hardened. “But if you don’t understand what I’m saying right now, don’t bother.”

“I understand,” Spike said immediately. “I swear, I’m sorry. I was a right prat. I know that. I won’t put you through that again.”

“Good.”

There was a moment, then, where Buffy felt something shift between them. It wasn’t what they had before; the times where the world felt right and safe when Spike’s arms were around her were an echo of a life that wasn’t hers anymore. Perhaps that was gone for good.

They couldn’t go back to the way things were. But maybe they could have something new.

Buffy managed a smile. Her expression was still tired, but she meant it when she said: “It’ll be good to have you around. Come on; let’s get back and save my mom from her unexpected grandson.”

Spike snorted at that.

When they made it back to Andrew’s prone form and his entourage, Buffy was startled to note that Jonathan and Joyce had both continued to fade; the slight fuzz of their outlines had crept inwards, and now it felt was as she were if looking at them through a misty window.

Buffy felt herself tense. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye, not just yet.

“Hi, Mom,” Buffy said instead. She moved over to Joyce and, after a moment’s hesitation, rested her head against the blurry arm that wasn’t still draped around Dawn. The sensation chilled Buffy like a damp day, sending crawling shivers down her spine. But she didn’t pull away.

“Hey, Buffy,” Joyce replied, brushing a strand of hair out of Buffy’s face. “Giles showed up. He wants to talk to you.”

“Giles?”

Buffy followed the nod of Joyce’s head. Giles was standing off to one side, watching them with his hands pushed into his pockets. It was . . . an odd gesture for him. At the sight of Giles, Buffy didn’t feel the usual pang of anger and betrayal that had burned inside her ever since she’d learned the truth of this plans. Today, she felt only tired.

Perhaps Giles hadn’t done anything to regain her trust. Perhaps there was nothing he _could_ do. But Buffy was too tired to fight anymore. Perhaps, Spike wasn’t the only one she could start over with.

Carefully, Buffy extracted herself from Joyce’s touch, and walked over to Giles.

His expression was guarded as he watched her approach. Evidently, he still expected her anger.

“Hey,” Buffy said. “What d’you want to talk about?”

The complete absence of hostility in her voice made him blink. His shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. “Angel’s soul has lost enough of its physicality to be returned to his body,” he said. “Willow is on her way to Angelus’ prison. As soon as she arrives, she will perform the spell.”

“Great. Does Willow need anything to do the spell?”

“No. She does not need to summon his soul, merely guide it back into the body.”

“Okay. I guess--”

Buffy cut off, looking over her shoulder. She’d been about to say “ _I guess I’ll head over_ ”, but the blurriness of Joyce’s form was a painful reminder of just how much time she had left before her mother returned to heaven. She had only just stepped out; she didn’t want to do so again.

But to stay here with her family would mean not being present to make sure Angel’s re-ensoulment went smoothly, to ensure that Angelus would hurt no one else.

Buffy licked her lips. “Mom, Dawn -- I have to go to watch Angelus’ re-ensoulment. You guys don’t have to come; I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Joyce and Dawn looked at each other, and then Dawn said: “We’ll come with you. I’ve read a bit about re-ensoulments. Maybe I can help.”

Buffy thought that Willow probably had it handled, but she nodded gratefully. She glanced at her mother. Joyce didn’t seem unsettled by the prospect of watching a vampire’s re-ensoulment.

“I’ll stay here with Andrew,” Jonathan announced.

“Good thinking,” Dawn replied, as she got to her feet.

“I’ll show you lot to the brig,” said Spike. “‘S where we’re keeping Angelus.”

“You have a brig?” said Dawn.

“We do now.”

As Spike led them on, Buffy fell back a few paces to walk with Giles. Giles glanced up at her, looking startled.

“Buffy, I--”

“I understand why you did what you did,” Buffy said simply.

Giles dropped his gaze. “Yes, I . . . I’m sorry, Buffy. I let my fear of the prophecy get away from me. Perhaps I should have invested more in seeking alternatives. But I did not, in full honesty, believe there were any.”

“You thought you were saving the world and decided there was only one way to fight the prophecy.” But when Buffy met his eyes, her tightness in her expression said that while she understood, she did not accept his choices. She offered him a stiff, unfeeling smile. “Don’t do that again,” she said.

And she went to walk by her mother’s side instead.

Outside the brig, they found Cordelia and Angel standing at the door. The man Cordelia had introduced as ‘Dennis’ hovered anxiously at Cordelia’s side. All three of them had blurred, and when Buffy looked hard enough, she could see the brushed texture of the bulkheads behind them through their bodies.

Cordelia lifted an eyebrow at the sight of them. “Bit of an audience, huh?”

“Better safe than sorry where Angelus is concerned,” said Buffy.

“Indeed,” Giles murmured, and Buffy registered for the first time that Jenny wasn’t around.

“Where’s Willow?” she asked.

“Here, sorry,” said Willow from behind them.

Willow had just turned the corner, and as Buffy looked over at her, she took in the weariness in the way Willow held herself, in the dark bags under her eyes. Willow may have been the most powerful witch in the world, but the demands of holding the universe together had almost been too much.

“Are you alright to do this?” Buffy asked. “We can probably find another witch who’s a little fresher, if you need us to.”

Willow shook her head. “I’m alright. This is just guiding Angel’s soul; I can do that. And I’m already more familiar with Angel’s soul than any of the other witches.”

“Then let’s stop dallying,” Cordelia cut in. “Come on, get on with it.”

Buffy almost rolled her eyes -- but then Dennis laid a reassuring hand on Cordelia’s arm, and Buffy noticed the worry underlying her expression.

“Willow, go ahead,” Buffy said, stepping aside for Willow to take the lead.

Willow obliged, and unlatched the door before carefully pushing it open.

The room inside was dark, and small. There were no windows, and the only lighting was in thin strips that ran along the floor, right up against the walls. It cast the whole room in a distinctly scifi glow. Which Buffy supposed made sense, being on a spaceship and all.

And at the center of the room, a chair had been magically welded to the floor. Angelus sat limply in the seat, his head lolling to one side. His legs had been tied to the chair’s legs; his torso was tied to the back of the chair, and his hands were bound tightly behind him. Behind him, stood his guard: two Slayers, and the boy Spike had introduced as Connor.

Buffy heard Angel’s breath hitch.

“Connor?”

Connor smiled slightly. “Hey, Dad.”

“Wait, _what_?” Buffy yelped, spinning around to face Angel. “‘Dad’?!”

“Right, I forgot to mention that, didn’t I?” Willow murmured.

“What’s going on?” Buffy demanded.

This was the first time she’d heard of Angel being a _dad_ \-- and Connor was almost as old as she was! Where had this kid been, back when Buffy had been dancing with Angel at prom?

“It’s a long story,” Cordelia said curtly. “Tell you later. First let’s get Angel’s soul back where it belongs.”

Angel, meanwhile, had taken a shaky step toward Connor. “You’ve been guarding my body?”

“Yeah. It was either keep your body unconscious or have them stake it,” Connor replied, jabbing a thumb at the Slayers behind him.

Connor choosing to keep Angelus alive must have meant something enormous to Angel, because his hands were trembling.

“Your . . . your life,” Angel finally murmured.

“Is fine. I’ll go back to it. But I heard you were trying to destroy the world, and I had to see what that was about.”

Angel’s lips twitched. “It was a mistake.”

“Well, yeah. Obviously.”

“Perhaps you might continue talking after Willow has finished the re-ensoulment,” Giles commented mildly.

“Oh,” Angel said, looking somewhat embarrassed. “Yeah. Sure.” He glanced to Willow.

“Ready?” Willow asked.

Curtly, he nodded.

Willow stepped forward, and took Angel’s hand in hers. The other hand, she reached out to Angelus, draping his limp fingers over her palm.

She closed her eyes, and began to speak:

“ _Quod perditum est, invenietur._

_Nici mort, nici al fiinţei,_

_te invoc spirit al trecerii._

_Redă trupului ce separe omul de animal._

_Aşa să fie! Aşa să fie!_

_Acum! Acum!”_

Angel gasped, and his blurred body jerked. Light suddenly suffused him, pouring out from his limbs and brightening until he was a burning brand of heatless flames. His figure faded. Behind the blaze of light, his shape curled up; Angel’s soul no longer existed as a body, but as a ball of burning white-hot energy.

Out of the corner of her eye, Buffy saw an expression that was somehow infinitely old cross Dawn’s face.

Willow’s grip tightened on Angelus’ hand, and the glowing brand of Angel’s soul began to swirl back toward his body.

The moment the soul brushed Angelus’ skin, he jerked awake.

He let out a furious snarl, and writhed against the bonds. But in the heartbeat it took him to register what was happening, it was too late; the soul wrapped itself around his body like a cocoon, and slipped under his skin.

His head snapped back. His eyes glowed brilliantly.

And then Angel slumped, his head lolling forward.

“Angel,” Cordelia said sharply, striding the half dozen paces to his side and shaking his shoulder roughly. “Angel!”

Angel groaned, and slowly lifted his head. “Gimme a second, Cordelia. That whole experience is a bit disorienting.”

A brilliant grin split across Cordelia’s face. “Oh, shut up.” She dropped to her knees beside him, and threw her arms around his bound torso.

Buffy breathed out, feeling tension drain from the room. Angelus may have been restrained and guarded, but his presence had put everyone on edge. Now that he was gone, bound by a soul, Buffy could read the relief on everyone’s face in the room.

But then, Angel shivered, and he pulled back his head to gaze up at Cordelia’s blurring outline. “Cordelia,” he murmured. “You’re fading.”

Cordelia’s grin froze on her face. “Well, yeah. I can’t stick around on Earth forever, you know.”

“How long?”

“Not long now,” she admitted. “I can feel my concentration going, and that is _so_ annoying.”

Buffy’s gaze whipped around to fix on her mother. Her heart stopped to see just how transparent Joyce’s skin had gotten. And worse than that: there was a slightly dazed look to Joyce’s expression, as if she were trying to blink her way out of a dream.

“Mom?” Buffy said, her voice thin.

It took Joyce a second to register the sound, and then turn to look at Buffy. She smiled weakly. “I’ll be fine.”

“As long as we get moving soon,” Dennis said urgently. “We don’t want to get stuck on Earth. We _don’t_.”

Angel stared up at Cordelia, heartbreak shining in his eyes. “You’re leaving.”

“In a minute.”

“Tara. She’s -- she’s treating the wounded. I need to find her,” Willow choked out, and she spun away.

Giles said nothing, but hurried after her.

“Have them meet us outside the ship -- and collect all the other souls you see!” Cordelia called out, but they’d already disappeared. “Ugh. At least I still have enough of a grip to send out a higher power message.”

She twirled a finger.

“You’re really going,” Angel murmured.

“Hey,” Cordelia said, shrugging one shoulder. “I don’t make the rules of heaven.” It looked as if it pained her to say it.

Angel’s expression tightened. He tugged on the bonds still tying him to the chair, and snapped: “Can someone get me out of these already?”

Connor obliged, and a knife flashed out to cut through the rope.

“Thanks,” Angel said, bringing his wrists forward to rub the circulation back in. As he did so, he continued to stare up at Cordelia, his eyes desperately tracing every contour of her blurring form.

“We really need to get going,” Dennis said. His voice was gentle, but there was an undercurrent of urgency.

Buffy stumbled closer to her mother. _Not yet_ , every fibre of her being screamed. _Not yet, not yet, not yet_.

“If we don’t get moving, we’re going to get stuck,” Dennis pressed. “Please. I don’t wish that on anyone.”

“Keep your hair on,” Cordelia told him, not unkindly. “We’re moving, alright?” She held out a hand to help Angel to his feet.

As Angel pushed himself upright, Dennis let out a breath. “Good. We should pick up Jonathan on the way back.”

As they left the room, Buffy felt numb. Her mother was leaving, again. There was nothing she could do to stop it.

When they reached Jonathan, Jonathan swung his head to stare back at Andrew with wide eyes. “You want to leave now? But he’s  -- he’s not awake yet.”

“I’m sorry,” Dennis said softly. “But we can’t wait. You’ll lose yourself.”

“You pulled me up once before, right? You can do it again.”  

“You do realize that takes time and energy, right?” Cordelia retorted. “Not to mention I have no idea how it’s going to work through all the new walls going up. We leave you down here now, who knows how long it will take to get you back up to heaven? No, you’re coming with us.”

Jonathan stared helplessly at Andrew’s form.

“Maybe you can leave him a message?” Dawn suggested.

“Yeah,” Jonathan murmured. “Yeah. Um, can I write on something?”

“I have a notepad for sigils here,” the Wiccan tending to Andrew offered. “Will that work?”

“Thanks.”

But as Jonathan climbed to his feet to take the notepad, Andrew stirred. His eyes fluttered open, and he frowned, struggling to focus. “Jonathan?” he murmured. “Where . . . ?”

His hand twitched helplessly under him, as if he were trying to push himself up but couldn’t find the coordination or strength to do so.

“Hey,” Dawn said instinctively, her hand shooting out to catch Andrew’s shoulder. Then she pulled back her hand and signed: _“Jonathan is going back to heaven. He’ll be fine. You need to rest.”_

But Andrew’s eyes widened. He choked out: “No. I have to . . . Help me up. Please.”

Dawn glanced up at the Wiccan. “Can you lift the sedation spell for a bit? Just a few minutes -- so he can say goodbye.”

“I can give you ten minutes at the most.”

“Ten minutes,” Dawn agreed.  

The Wiccan lowered her palm and breathed a word that sounded like the rustle of wind through leaves.

Immediately, Andrew’s entire body tensed up, his features twisting as the pain came back full force. He let out a pitiful whimper.

“Andrew?” Jonathan sounded scared.

“Glasses,” Andrew gasped.

Buffy spotted his glasses tucked up at the edge of the blanket he was lying on. She scooped them up and proffered them to him. His hands were almost trembling too much to put them on.

“You’re . . . you’re leaving?” Andrew murmured to Jonathan, as he pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Have to,” Jonathan replied. “The walls are going up again. I have to go to the portal.”

“I’ll come and see you off,” Andrew said, his voice soft.

“You shouldn’t be walking,” the Wiccan argued.

“Okay,” Andrew replied. “I can still make it. Professor X got around without walking pretty okay.”

“Yeah, but my ship’s not exactly equipped with fancy wheelchairs,” Spike pointed out.

“Then, uh . . . someone can carry me,” Andrew insisted.

“Right,” Spike said, sounding amused. “Who? The big, stupid puppy who just almost destroyed the world _again_?”

Angel visibly winced.

“Hell no,” Cordy retorted. “I know that big, stupid puppy is going to want a hug when we get to the portal, and that’ll be tough when his arms are full of stubborn cripple.”

It was Andrew’s turn to wince. Cordelia didn’t notice.

But Cordelia had a point, Buffy reflected. Andrew wasn’t the only one who needed to say goodbye.  

“How about you, Spike?” Buffy said. “I don’t think you’ll be looking for any hugs.”

She tried for a smile, but it felt wrong on her lips, and so she dropped it. It was hard to forget that she, too, would be saying goodbye.

Spike, to his credit, merely said: “Me? Oh, hell, no. Sebastian!”

And so Andrew was carried out in the gentle clutches of a giant cockroach. Dennis hurried the group along from behind, and his twitchiness had gotten so bad he seemed to be flickering. Although, Buffy reflected, as she watched Jonathan’s shoulder phase through a wall, maybe the flickering wasn’t all twitchiness.

Outside, the sun was still low in the sky; it rose behind the ship, which cast a long shadow all the way to the two, enormous portals at the center of the field. The souls had already clustered around two portals. They filed up to the portals and, one by one, stepped in. Most weren’t saying goodbyes; their loved ones hadn’t been in the battle. There weren’t many souls left -- not even two dozen.

In between the two portals, Buffy recognized a handful of souls and their companions. Her heart ached; the thought of her mother leaving again made her almost dizzy with grief, but that didn’t mean that it would be easy to watch Tara, Anya, or Jenny leave either.

Buffy led her group over to the others. It took a moment before they were noticed. Finally, Jenny looked up, from where she’d been resting her head on Giles’ chest.

“Hey, Buffy,” she greeted. With a sad smile, she took in Cordelia and Dennis and Jonathan and the drawn expressions on their faces. “I suppose it’s time to go, huh?”

“Yes,” said Dennis. His voice was beginning to sound distant, as if on the other end of a bad connection.

Giles’ hand on Jenny’s arm tightened.

Jenny turned back to Giles and ran two fingers along his temple. “I’ll miss you,” she murmured.

“I’m sorry,” Giles choked out. “I should have protected you. I brought you too close--”

“Hey,” Jenny cut him off. “You didn’t kill me. I know, you’re a big, strong man, but that doesn’t mean you have to carry the weight of everything on your shoulders.”

A heartbreaking sadness rose in her eyes.

“I’ve been watching over you, Rupert. I know what you think you’ve lost, but please listen to me. The man who hated monster trucks is still in there. You’re not lost, not for good. Don’t give yourself over to the darkness because you think you’re too far gone.”

“I . . . ,” Giles murmured.

“Promise me,” Jenny continued. “Promise me you’ll go to another show of monster trucks, and you’ll absolutely _hate it_.”

“I promise,” Giles croaked.

Jenny grinned. “Good.” Then, she leaned up and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to his lips.

Giles shivered as the fuzz of her outline passed through him. But his eyes slid shut, and he gripped harder at Jenny’s arm as he returned the kiss desperately.

Jenny pulled away. “I still love you,” she said.

“I love you, too,” he murmured back.

He watched helplessly as Jenny pushed in through the crowd of souls, and, with one last glance over her shoulder, disappeared into the portal.

“Anya,” Andrew breathed. “I’m sorry. It should have been me.”

But Anya, who was leaning into Xander’s shoulder as he draped an arm around her, scowled. “What are you talking about?”

“Y-you shouldn’t have died. It was supposed to have been me.”

“‘Supposed to have been’? What, did you miss that whole throwing-destiny-out-the-window episode we just went through?”

“But--”

“Cool it. It’s not like the world’s ever been fair. I mean, hey, I was a vengeance demon because apparently only hell believes in justice. Anyway don’t go crying your eyes out about it. Heaven’s pretty cool.”

Xander huffed a weak laugh, squeezing her shoulder. “I hope you give them hell up there.”

Anya lifted the Oracle’s headdress, which was looped around her wrist. “Only when they annoy me.”

“That’s my girl.” Xander dropped a soft kiss to the top of Anya’s head. “Go on. Kick ass in heaven.”

But despite the levity of his words, pain shone in his eyes as Anya extracted herself from his arms. When she, too, vanished into the same portal Jenny had gone through, Andrew let out a small choking sound.

Willow clutched to Tara, her forehead pressed to Tara’s chest, while her fingers curled in the fabric of Tara’s dress as best they could. Her shoulders were shuddering, and every line of her body exuded vulnerability.

“Shh, shh,” Tara murmured, stroking Willow’s hair. “You’ll be okay, sweetie.”

Of all the dead souls, Tara looked the furthest gone. She’d been pushing herself for hours, treating the wounded in any way she could: bandaging, setting, and magic. Now, she was almost fully translucent, a barely tangible mirage. Her voice was hardly more than a breath.  

“I can’t be okay. Not without you,” Willow gasped.

“Hey. I believe in you. You’ll be okay. And I’ll be watching out for you.”

“I miss you. Every day.”

“I miss you, too,” Tara murmured sadly.

There was a moment then, when Tara vanished entirely -- a flicker in which she popped right out of existence. Willow had just enough time to stumble forward, panic on her face, and then Tara was back, a foot to the left of where she’d been before.

Tara’s expression was drawn, exhausted. Strands of her long hair hung limply in front of her face.

Dennis stepped forward and pressed a hand to Tara’s back. He didn’t say anything, but his meaning was clear.

“I have to go,” Tara told Willow. “I love you, always.”

“I love you, too,” Willow replied, in almost a whisper. Her eyes were wide and shining, pleading.

Tara was suddenly closer, but Buffy didn’t see her feet move. One hand brushed against the edge of Willow’s jaw, wiping away a tear. “But try to move on, sweetie. I love you, but I want you to find happiness again.”

For a moment, Willow’s throat worked soundlessly. Finally, she whimpered: “I’ll try. I wish you didn’t have to go. I wish I could go with you.”

Tara’s expression suddenly turned steely. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . I just mean I’ll miss you.” Willow swallowed hard, and forced a small smile. “But you -- you’re happy?”

Tara nodded. “You should see my heaven. It’s beautiful. And I found my mother.”

“Oh,” Willow breathed. “That’s . . . that’s good, then.”  

Tara captured Willow’s lips in a final kiss. When she pulled away, Willow followed desperately after the moment, but Tara just smiled sadly.

“I love you,” she murmured, one last time.

Before heading to the portal, she paused just long enough to pull Dawn into a hug and say: “Be good. I’m so proud of you.”

“I will,” Dawn replied.

Then Tara, too, turned and disappeared into the portal.

Buffy stared back at her mother, praying with every inch of her being that Joyce wouldn’t be the next to leave. But she knew: even if Joyce held out a few more minutes, at some point, they would have to say goodbye. Buffy reached out to her, helplessly seeking her mother’s touch.

As Joyce’s arm came around her shoulders, Buffy heard a voice that she just barely registered as familiar.

“What do you mean, ‘wrong door’?”

Buffy glanced up, and recognized Wesley standing by the portal opposite the one Jenny, Anya, and Tara had gone through. He was facing a woman dressed in magenta, his eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment.

“This _is_ the portal to hell, correct?” he continued.

“Sure,” said the woman. She was solid -- not a fading soul, apparently. “But you’re being transferred.”

“Transferred?”

“The Senior Partners didn’t like the Powers instigating the end of the world without their say-so, and they certainly didn’t like everything going on in heaven without their being able to keep an eye on it. So you’re being transferred. You’re the new head of the recently-opened heaven branch of Wolfram and Hart.”

Wesley blinked, speechless.

“Hey, it’s a promotion,” the woman said. “Congratulations.”

“I’m going to heaven?” Wesley murmured.

“Yes. And when you get up there, you might owe your higher power friend a thank you for her suggestion.”

Wesley’s head swung around, searching for Cordelia. When he spotted her, just over Buffy’s shoulder, he mouthed a awestruck: “ _Thank you_.”

Buffy glanced at Cordelia. A smug smile pulled at Cordelia’s lips, and she lifted her chin -- but there was also a gentleness in her expression that startled Buffy to see. By the time Buffy looked back to where Wesley had been, he’d already disappeared into the doorway to heaven.

Buffy twisted back to her mother. With Wesley’s departure, all the souls other than those in their small group had already returned to the afterlife. _Not yet_ , her thoughts screamed. _Not yet; not yet_.

But Dennis came up beside Jonathan next and gave him a gentle tug toward the portal. Dennis didn’t seem to be trying to use words anymore, and his expression was oddly blank, as if he’d forgotten how to emote.

Andrew’s breath caught.

“Already?” he said helplessly.

Jonathan shot him an apologetic look. “I guess. I mean, you have to go back under the spell.”

“I -- Sebastian, put me down.”

“But the witch said you shouldn’t--,” Jonathan began, but Andrew was already squirming out of Sebastian’s grasp.

“Just a second,” Andrew insisted. His feet found the ground, and he winced at the pain it shot through his body.

But before anyone could protest further, Andrew stumbled forward the few feet of distance between him and Jonathan and threw his arms around him.

“I’m sorry,” Andrew gasped.

“I said I know,” Jonathan said, when Andrew pulled back enough to look at him. “And I forgive you, okay?”

Andrew’s eyes widened. “You . . . forgive me?” He looked suddenly very small, as if he didn’t know what to do with this information.

“Yeah.” And for a fleeting second, Jonathan returned Andrew’s hug.

As Jonathan drew away, Andrew swallowed and said: “I’m still sorry you’re dead. You didn’t deserve an end like that.”

“End?” Jonathan replied. “‘No, the journey doesn’t end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The gray rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns into silver glass. And then you see it’.”

A weak, startled smile flit across Andrew’s lips as he realized what Jonathan was quoting. “What? Gandalf?” he rejoined. “See what?”

“White shores. And beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise.”

“Well, that isn’t so bad,” Andrew said softly.

“No,” replied Jonathan. “No, it isn’t.”

Andrew sniffed, and rubbed at his eyes.

“Andrew!”

It was Posey, her blonde pigtails bouncing behind her as she hurried forward. She was flanked by two other members of Italy Squad, one of whom Buffy recognized as Indira.

Posey came up from behind Andrew, so when she touched his elbow, he jumped. Then gasped: “Posey?”

She offered him a tremulous smile. “Hey. Wanted to say goodbye.”

Andrew wrenched her into a tight hug. Posey let out a yelp of surprise, but didn’t fight him off. She hugged him back, but the pads of her fingers passed right through his side. Andrew gave a visible full-body shiver.

“I’m sorry you died,” Andrew told her, finally releasing her.

“I-I’m a little sorry, too,” Posey admitted. “But you were a good Watcher. Thank you for everything.”

Andrew’s lower lip trembled, and then he pulled her into another hug.

“Jonathan, can I ask you a favor?” Andrew asked. “Can you look after Posey for me?”

Jonathan’s eyebrows arched high. “Me? She’s the one who had the power to beat Twilight!”

“Yeah, but make sure she adjusts to heaven okay? She’s shy.”

Posey ducked her gaze, embarrassed. “I’ll be fine. We’ll, uh, look out for each other, okay?”

Andrew gazed at her, his eyes shining. Wordlessly, he nodded.

Dennis found Jonathan’s sleeve and pulled again, more incessantly than before.

“Hey, uh, Posey -- let’s go,” Jonathan said, gesturing for her to follow. “Dennis is right; we really don’t want to get stuck down here.”

“Okay,” Posey said. She pulled away from Andrew, and gave each of the other two Slayers that had followed her fleeting hugs goodbye.

Andrew stumbled forward, looking as if he wanted to call something after them. But evidently, he could find no words to say. As he stared silently after them, together, Jonathan, Posey, and Dennis returned to heaven.

The moment they vanished, Andrew’s legs collapsed under him, and he fell to the earth. Sebastian chittered, distressed, and crouched down to gather him back into his spindly appendages. Andrew curled into Sebastian’s grip, letting out a soft keening sound. Buffy saw that tears had begun to leak out of his eyes, clumping his eyelashes and rolling streaks down his cheeks.

Buffy had a horrible, sinking thought that she knew who was next. Dawn evidently agreed; before anyone had the chance to so much as twitch, she threw her arms around Joyce and choked out a sob.

“I’ll miss you,” she gasped.

Joyce smiled softly and kissed Dawn’s hair. One arm looped around Dawn’s shoulders, while the other draped around Buffy. Buffy leaned into her mother’s touch, feeling numb.

Her mother was leaving. Again. Buffy wanted to scream; she wanted to beg; she wanted to fight. But she’d seen what staying on Earth had been doing to Dennis and to Tara. Joyce had to leave. There was no way around it. For a few hours, the world had felt right again: she’d had her mother back. And now she was losing it all again.

But Buffy had to pull herself together. This was the only chance she had to say goodbye -- a chance she didn’t have the first time.

“Mom,” she murmured. “Thank you. For everything. I love you. I--”

Goodbyes were harder to word than she’d thought.

Joyce brushed a hand against Buffy’s hair. “I love you, too. I’m so proud of you.” There was a pause, and then Joyce continued: “Buffy, can I ask something?”

Buffy looked unblinkingly up at her. “Yeah. Anything.”

“Look, I know this Slayer thing is important to you, and you’re very dedicated to it, but there are a lot of other Slayers now. Maybe you can take a break? You and Dawnie. I saw Dawn was going to Berkley for a while. I mean, I don’t know if that was true, because of what the Powers were doing--”

“That was true!” Dawn broke in. “I was going to Berkley. I had to stop for a while because I had, uh, some issues. But they’re fixed now.”

Joyce beamed. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I’ll go back,” Dawn promised.

“That’s wonderful. And Buffy? I know, you have a lot of responsibilities, but . . .”

For a moment, Buffy was quiet.

Then, finally, she said: “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll take a break.”

Joyce let out a breath of relief. “Really?”

“You’re right. There are a lot of Slayers now. I mean,” she said, smiling wryly, “I wasn’t even the one who saved the world this time. That was Cordelia, Posey, and Nisha. And the Organization has already been moving toward independence. Yeah, I can take a break. Actually, Dawn -- before you go back to college, what do you think about a vacation?”

“A vacation?” Dawn echoed.

“There’s still a bunch of money donated into my name from our benefactors,” Buffy said. “I could take a bit of it, take us on a trip. And we can bring Willow and Xander and everyone, too. Make it a family trip.”

And Dawn’s expression, still heavy with the grief of losing her mother again, managed to brighten. Just marginally. “Can we go skiing?”

“In the Alps,” Buffy agreed.

“That sounds perfect,” Joyce said. “Thank you, Buffy.”

“Anything,” Buffy replied. It was, in a way, her mother’s final wish.

“You ready to go?” Cordelia asked Joyce.

“Yes,” Joyce said. But she held onto her daughters a minute longer.

Buffy clutched onto her mother, ignoring the chill that permeated her entire being. She buried her face in Joyce’s side and prayed for time to stop, breathing deep and trying to memorize every detail of the moment. The strange, slippery feel of the fabric that was fading out of existence under her hands. The chill of the morning breeze. The fading scents of battle: blood, smoke, sulfur. Her mother’s presence.

But time did not stop, and Joyce finally pulled away. Immediately, Dawn clutched onto Buffy’s arm. Together, the sisters watched hand-in-hand as their mother walked away.

Joyce looked back. Her gaze was still fixed on Dawn and Buffy when she stepped into the portal. Buffy squeezed her eyes shut, trying to permanently burn the last image of her mother into her memory.

That left only Cordelia.

When Buffy finally cracked her eyes open, Cordelia was standing between the two portals, watching her. A breeze had kicked up, gently tossing her curls as the glow of the portals illuminated her on either side, and even the way the light shone right through her fading skin somehow made her look taller, more in control. Cordelia had always been regal in high school -- but it was nothing compared to this.

Angel moved forward. His body was still draped in Twilight’s ridiculous outfit, metal breastplate and padded pants and popped collar and all, but the dramatics of the outfit paired with the stark vulnerability in his expression made him look somehow small.

“Cordelia,” Angel began.

Cordelia just looked at him, and raised an eyebrow. “Don’t do that again. I can’t come bailing you out _all_ the time.”

“I . . .”

“But knowing you,” Cordelia continued, “you’ll keep getting yourself into trouble. So keep your ears open. You know how to listen for me.”

“I love you,” Angel blurted out.

“Well, _duh_ ,” Cordelia said, smiling slightly. “I love you, too, you big idiot.”

“No, I mean, not as a colleague or a friend. I mean . . .”

“I know what you meant,” Cordelia cut him off. She paced over to him and ran the tips of her fingers along his jaw, and then leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips.

Angel clutched at her wrists as he kissed back, as best he could when her lips were fading out of existence. Tears were leaking out of the corners of his eyes as he kissed, his movements desperate and incessant. But hardly had a heartbeat passed when Cordelia pulled away again.

“I know what you meant,” she said again, and now there was an undercurrent of sadness in her voice, even as she smiled. “Glad you finally said it at a moment when I don’t have to worry about perfect happiness.”

Angel stared at Cordelia, and Buffy’s heart twisted to see the heartbreak written so starkly across his face.

“I better go,” Cordelia continued. “Heaven’s probably a bit of a mess right now. I have a lot of souls to sort out.”

“Okay.” Angel’s voice cracked. “I-I’ll be listening for you.”

“Good.”

But before she turned back for the portal, she looked to Buffy. They shared a look, a moment between generals.

The corners of Buffy’s lips twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile. “Thanks for helping out.”

“You kidding? I saved all your asses.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, feeling herself fall back to the old patterns between them -- but unlike in the past, it was comfortable. Almost affectionate. “You did a good job,” she admitted finally.

“Yeah,” Cordelia agreed. “And I don’t think the Powers That Be will be giving us too much more trouble. I think we made it clear that if they try to mess with us, we know how to look out for ourselves. Alive or dead; human or demon.”

“Yeah, we did,” Buffy said.

Cordelia flashed her a grin. “Well, then. Take care of Earth. I’ve got a heaven to run.” And she turned and stepped through the portal to heaven.

When she vanished, the portals shrank, to thin strips of light that finally faded into nothing. Buffy was left standing at Dawn’s side. Giles, Andrew, Xander, Willow, and Angel hung behind, all in various states of fresh grief, pain, and -- oddly enough, calm. Buffy’s own memories of heaven had long grown fuzzy, but she knew they’d watched their loved ones walk into peace. And they’d had the chance to say goodbye. None of them had had that opportunity the first time around.

Didn’t mean it didn’t still hurt.

There was a long moment of silence, where none of them seemed to know what to do next.

Finally, it was Dawn who spoke: “So, that skiing trip for Mom. When do we go?”

“I don’t know -- November?” Buffy replied. “Is skiing in the Alps good then?”

“I believe there are some ski resorts open in November, yes,” Giles put in. His voice still cracked a bit.

“Alright. November it is.”

“I’ll learn to snowboard,” Xander said.

The conversation energized the group somewhat. There was still a heaviness to the atmosphere, but they were finding the motivation to move back toward the ship. There were survivors to tend to; updates to distribute; squads to send an indefinite vacation notice to.

Buffy dropped to Sebastian’s side and said to Andrew: “Come on, let’s get you back under the spell. You’ll be useless skiing if you haven’t healed.”

Andrew’s eyes widened. “I’m going, too?”

“I did say family vacation, didn’t I?”

A quavering grin spread across his face, and the awe in his eyes made him look younger than he was.

It was rewarding to see, Buffy thought. The dirt and bruises on his skin aged him, not to mention the grief and exhaustion that still lingered on his face. The same grief and exhaustion was reflected in the expressions of everyone behind her: in the limpness of Willow’s hair, in the lines on Giles’ forehead, in Xander’s one good eye.

They were all tired. But finally, for a moment, things were calm.

“Come on,” Buffy said aloud. “Let’s all get some rest. That was a long night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, it's done! Finished writing this a little over a week ago and have just been sitting on edits, but I still can't believe that _it's done_. Surreal, man. Almost 130K. Yeesh. I still don't know how good the story is; my original idea was so freaking ambitious, and I had to restructure so much just to make it fit into the ridiculous 130K it ended up being. So many dropped plots. But I think I am happy with what I brought to the table, especially for a first epic fic! 
> 
> But anyway. This is my 128K response to [darkwingdukat's](darkwingdukat.tumblr.com) question a year ago: "What would happen if Andrew went deaf?" Don't ask me those kind of questions. It's dangerous. Clearly.
> 
> Okay, anyway! So please let me know what you thought. If you've been leaving reviews as the chapters go, _thanks so much_ ; your comments gave me life during the process of this! If you've been a silent reader, here's your chance to tell me what you liked, what you didn't, what needed better consideration, what made you laugh, what made you cry, I dunno. I would love to hear your thoughts! 
> 
> And a few thank you's.
> 
> Thanks to my regular betas: [animatedamerican](http://animatedamerican.tumblr.com),[sleazy-edmund](http://sleazy-edmund.tumblr.com) \-- and especially [darkwingdukat](http://darkwingdukat.tumblr.com) and [buffythecomicslayer/violentpoetry](http://buffythecomicslayer.tumblr.com), who were both there from the very start to the very end. You have all been amazing, making the story so much better than it would have been on its own, and have provided incredible cheerleading along the entire process. I am so lucky to have your support. 
> 
> Thank you to the various character consultants who dropped in with their insight on characters when I was having trouble. ([soulfulspikethekiller](http://soulfulspikethekiller.tumblr.com) for Spike; [apprenticebard](http://apprenticebard.tumblr.com) for Dawn; [part-timeslayer](http://part-timeslayer.tumblr.com) for Faith, etc.)
> 
> Thanks to the amazing readers who have followed this whole story for months or even if just weeks, and especially those who cheered me on with their amazing feedback! And thank _you_ for reading all the way to this point! You're all amazing. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!


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